IN 

Mr.  &  Mrs. 
Frederick  Lockwood  Lipman 


Presented  by 
Robert  L.   Lipman 


THE  OXFORD  BOOK  OF 
AMERICAN  ESSAYS 


CHOSEN  BY 

BRANDER  \MATTHEWS 

Professor  in  Columbia  University 
Member  of  the  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 


NEW  YORK 
OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

AMERICAN  BRANCH:  35  WEST  32ND  STREET 

LONDON,  TORONTO,  MELBOURNE,  AND  BOMBAY 
HUMPHREY  MILFORD 

1914 

ALL  EIGHTS  RESERVED 


Copyright,  1914 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

AMERICAN  BRANCH 


917 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION       .       .       . v 

THE  EPHEMERA:  AN  EMBLEM  OF  HUMAN  LIFE    .       .       i 

Benjamin  Franklin  (1706-1790). 
THE  WHISTLE 4 

Benjamin  Franklin  (1706-1790). 
DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  FRANKLIN  AND  THE  GOUT     .       .       7 

Benjamin  Franklin   (1706-1790). 
CONSOLATION  FOR  THE  OLD  BACHELOR     .       .       .       .15 

Francis  Hopkinson  (1737-1791). 
JOHN  BULL 21 

Washington  Irving  (1783-1859). 
THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE     .        .        .        .        -34 

Washington  Irving  (1783-1859). 
KEAN'S  ACTING 47 

Richard  Henry  Dana  (1787-1879). 
GIFTS 62 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  (1803-1882). 
USES  OF  GREAT  MEN 67 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  (1803-1882). 
BUDS  AND  BIRD- VOICES 88 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (1804-1864). 
THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  COMPOSITION 99 

Edgar  Allan  Poe   (1809-1849). 
BREAD  AND  THE  NEWSPAPER 114 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  (1809-1894). 
WALKING 128 

Henry  David  Thoreau  (1817-1862). 
ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS      .  '    .   166 

James  Russell  Lowell  (1819-1891). 
PREFACE  TO  "  LEAVES  OF  GRASS  " 194 

Walt  Whitman   (1819-1892). 


M895768 


iv  CONTENTS 

PAGE 
AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE 213 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  (1823-1911). 
THACKERAY  IN  AMERICA  ....       .       .       .  229 

George  William  Curtis  (1824-1892). 
OUR,  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON    .       .       .       .       .       .  241 

Theodore  Winthrop  (1828-1861). 
CALVIN  (A  Study  of  Character) 268 

Charles  Dudley  Warner  (1829-1900). 
FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION         .  280 

Charles  William  Eliot  (1834-         ) 
I  TALK  OF  DREAMS 308 

William  Dean  Howells  (1837-         ). 
AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HONEY-BEE 331 

John  Burroughs   (1837-         ). 
CUT-OFF  COPPLES'S 351 

Clarence  King  (1842-1901). 
THE  THEATRE  FRANCAIS 368 

Henry  James  (1843-         ). 
THEOCRITUS  ON  CAPE  COD 394 

Hamilton  Wright  Mabie  (1846-         ). 
COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES     .        .        .        .410 

Henry  Cabot  Lodge  (1850-         ). 
NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS 440 

William  Crary  Brownell  (1851-         ). 
THE  TYRANNY  OF  THINGS         .        .        .        .  .  467 

Edward  Sandford  Martin  (1856-         ). 
FREE  TRADE  vs.  PROTECTION  IN  LITERATURE  .        .        .  475 

Samuel  McChord  Crothers  (1857-         )• 
DANTE  AND  THE  BOWERY 480 

Theodore  Roosevelt  (1858-         ). 
THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  UNFIT 489 

Nicholas  Murray  Butler  (1862-         ). 
ON  TRANSLATING  THE  ODES  OF  HORACE  ....  497 

William  Peterfield  Trent  (1862-         ). 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  customary  antithesis  between  "  American "  litera 
ture  and  "  English  "  literature  is  unfortunate  and  mislead 
ing  in  that  it  seems  to  exclude  American  authors  from  the 
noble  roll  of  those  who  have  contributed  to  the  literature 
of  our  mother-tongue.  Of  course,  when  we  consider  it 
carefully  we  cannot  fail  to  see  that  the  literature  of  a  lan 
guage  is  one  and  indivisible  and  that  the  nativity  or  the 
domicile  of  those  who  make  it  matters  nothing.  Just  as 
Alexandrian  literature  is  Greek,  so  American  literature  is 
English ;  and  as  Theocritus  demands  inclusion  in  any  ac 
count  of  Greek  literature,  so  Thoreau  cannot  be  omitted 
from  any  history  of  English  literature  as  a  whole.  The 
works  of  Anthony  Hamilton  and  Rousseau,  Mme.  de'  Stae'l 
and  M.  Maeterlinck  are  not  more  indisputably  a  part  of 
the  literature  of  the  French  language  than  the  works  of 
Franklin  and  Emerson,  of  Hawthorne  and  Poe  are  part  of 
the  literature  of  the  English  language.  Theocritus  may 
never  have  set  foot  on  the  soil  of  Greece,  and  Thoreau 
never  adventured  himself  on  the  Atlantic  to  visit  the  island- 
home  of  his  ancestors ;  yet  the  former  expressed  himself  in 
Greek  and  the  latter  in  English, — and  how  can  either  be 
neglected  in  any  comprehensive  survey  of  the  literature  of 
his  own  tongue  ? 

None  the  less  is  it  undeniable  that  there  is  in  Franklin 
and  Emerson,  in  Walt  Whitman  and  Mark  Twain,  what 
ever  their  mastery  of  the  idiom  they  inherited  in  common 
with  Steele  and  Carlyle,  with  Browning  and  Lamb,  an 
indefinable  and  intangible  flavor  which  distinguishes  the 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

first  group  from  the  second.  The  men  who  have  set  down 
the  feelings  and  the  thoughts,  the  words  and  the  deeds  of 
the  inhabitants  of  the  United  States  have  not  quite  the 
same  outlook  on  life  that  we  find  in  the  men  who  have 
made  a  similar  record  in  the  British  Isles.  The  social 
atmosphere  is  not  the  same  on  the  opposite  shores  of  the 
Western  ocean;  and  the  social  organization  is  different  in 
many  particulars.  For  all  that  American  literature  is, — in 
the  apt  phrase  of  Mr.  Howells, — "  a  condition  of  English 
literature,"  nevertheless  it  is  also  distinctively  American. 
American  writers  are  as  loyal  to  the  finer  traditions  of 
English  literature  as  British  writers  are ;  they  take  an  equal 
pride  that  they  are  also  heirs  of  Chaucer  and  Dryden  and 
subjects  of  King  Shakspere;  yet  they  cannot  help  hav 
ing  the  note  of  their  own  nationality. 

Green,  when  he  came  to  the  Fourth  of  July,  1776,  de 
clared  that  thereafter  the  history  of  the  English-speaking 
people  flowed  in  two  currents;  and  it  is  equally  obvious 
that  the  stream  of  English  literature  has  now  two  channels. 
The  younger  and  the  smaller  is  American — and  what  can 
we  call  the  older  and  the  ampler  except  British  ?  A  century 
ago  there  were  published  collections  entitled  the  British 
Poets,  the  British  Novelists,  and  the  British  Essayists;  and 
the  adjective  was  probably  then  chosen  to  indicate  that 
these  gatherings  included  the  work  of  Scotch  and  Irish 
writers.  Whatever  the  reason,  the  choice  was  happy;  and 
the  same  adjective  would  serve  to  indicate  now  that  the 
selections  excluded  the  work  of  American  writers.  The 
British  branch  of  English  literature  is  the  richer  and 
the  more  various;  yet  the  American  branch  has  its  own 
richness  and  its  own  variety,  even  if  these  qualities  have 
revealed  themselves  only  in  the  past  hundred  years. 

It  may  be  noted  also  that  although  American  literature 
has  not  been  adorned  by  so  great  a  galaxy  of  brilliant  names 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

as  illumined  British  literature  in  the  nineteenth  century,  it 
has  had  the  good  fortune  to  possess  more  authors  of  cos 
mopolitan  fame  than  can  be  found  in  the  German  literature 
of  the  past  hundred  years,  in  the  Italian,  or  in  the  Spanish. 
A  forgotten  American  essayist  once  asserted  that  "  foreign 
nations  are  a  contemporaneous  posterity,"  and  even  if  this 
smart  saying  is  not  to  be  taken  too  literally,  it  has  its 
significance.  There  is  therefore  food  for  thought  in  the 
fact  that  at  least  half  a  dozen,  not  to  say  half  a  score,  of 
American  authors  have  won  wide  popularity  outside  the 
limits  of  their  own  language, — a  statement  which  could  not 
be  made  of  as  many  German  or  Italian  or  Spanish  authors 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  From  the  death  of  Goethe  to 
the  arrival  of  the  playwrights  of  the  present  generation, 
perhaps  Heine  is  the  sole  German  writer  either  of  prose  or 
of  verse  who  has  established  his  reputation  broadly  among 
the  readers  of  other  tongues  than  his  own.  And  not  more 
than  one  or  two  Spanish  or  Italian  authors  have  been  re 
ceived  even  by  their  fellow  Latins,  as  warmly  as  the  French 
and  the  Germans  have  welcomed  Cooper  and  Poe,  Emerson 
and  Mark  Twain. 

It  is  to  present  typical  and  characteristic  examples  of 
the  American  contribution  to  English  literature  in  the 
essay-form  that  this  volume  has  been  prepared.  Perhaps 
the  term  "  essay-form "  is  not  happily  chosen  since  the 
charm  of  the  essay  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  is  not  formal, 
that  it  may  be  whimsical  in  its  point  of  departure,  and 
capricious  in  its  ramblings  after  it  has  got  itself  under 
way.  Even  the  Essay  is  itself  a  chameleon,  changing 
color  while  we  study  it.  There  is  little  in  common  between 
Locke's  austere  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding 
and  Lamb's  fantastic  and  frolicsome  essay  on  Roast 
Pig.  He  would  be  bold  indeed  who  should  take  compass 
and  chain  to  measure  off  the  precise  territory  of  the  Essay 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

and  to  mark  with  scientific  exactness  the  boundaries  which 
separate  it  from  the  Address  on  the  one  side  and  from  the 
Letter  on  the  other. 

"  Some  (there  are)  that  turn  over  all  books  and  are 
equally  searching  in  all  papers,"  said  Ben  Jonson ;  "  that 
write  out  of  what  they  presently  find  or  meet,  without 
choice.  .  .  .  Such  are  all  the  Essayists,  ever  their  mas 
ter  Montaigne."  Bacon  and  Emerson  followed  in  the 
footsteps  of  Montaigne,  and  present  us  with  the  results  of 
their  browsings  among  books  and  of  their  own  dispersed 
meditations.  In  their  hands  the  essay  lacks  cohesion  and 
unity;  it  is  essentially  discursive.  Montaigne  never  stuck 
to  his  text,  when  he  had  one;  and  the  paragraphs  of  any 
of  Emerson's  essays  might  be  shuffled  without  increasing 
their  fortuitous  discontinuity. 

After  Montaigne  and  Bacon  came  Steele  and  Addison,  in 
whose  hands  the  essay  broadened  its  scope  and  took  on 
a  new  aspect.  The  eighteenth  century  essay  is  so  various 
that  it  may  be  accepted  as  the  forerunner  of  the  nineteenth 
century  magazine,  with  its  character-sketches  and  its  brief 
tales,  its  literary  and  dramatic  criticism,  its  obituary  com 
memorations  and  its  serial  stories — for  what  but  a  serial 
story  is  the  succession  of  papers  devoted  to  the  sayings 
and  doings  of  Sir  Roger  ?  It  was  a  new  departure,  although 
the  writers  of  the  Toiler  and  of  the  Spectator  had  profited 
by  the  Conversations  of  Walton  and  by  the  Charac 
ters  of  La  Bruyere,  by  the  epistles  of  Horace  and  by  the 
comedies  of  Moliere.  (Has  it  ever  been  pointed  out  that 
the  method  of  Steele  and  Addison  in  depicting  Sir  Roger  is 
curiously  akin  to  the  method  of  Moliere  in  presenting  M. 
Jourdain  ?) 

The  delightful  form  of  poetry  which  we  call  by  a  French 
name,  vers  de  societe,  (although  it  has  flourished  more  abun 
dantly  in  English  literature  than  in  French)  and  which 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

Mr.  Austin  Dobson,  one  of  its  supreme  masters,  prefers  to 
call  by  Cowper's  term,  "  familiar  verse,"  may  be  ac 
cepted  as  the  metrical  equivalent  of  the  prose  essay  as  this 
was  developed  and  expanded  by  the  English  writers  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  And  as  the  familiar  verse  of  our 
language  is  ampler  and  richer  than  that  of  any  other  tongue, 
so  also  is  the  familiar  essay.  Indeed,  the  essay  is  one  of 
the  most  characteristic  expressions  of  the  quality  of  our 
race.  In  its  ease  and  its  lightness  and  its  variety,  it  is 
almost  unthinkable  in  German;  and  even  in  French  it  is 
far  less  frequent  than  in  English  and  far  less  assiduously 
cultivated. 

As  Emerson  trod  in  the  footsteps  of  Bacon  so  Washing 
ton  Irving  walked  in  the  trail  blazed  by  Steele  and  Addison 
and  Goldsmith ;  and  Franklin  earlier,  although  his  essays  are 
in  fact  only  letters,  had  revealed  his  possession  of  the 
special  quality  the  essay  demands, — the  playful  wisdom  of 
a  man  of  the  world  who  is  also  a  man  of  letters.  Indeed, 
Dr.  Franklin  was  far  better  fitted  to  shine  as  an  essayist 
than  his  more  ponderous  contemporary,  Dr.  Johnson ;  cer 
tainly  Franklin  would  never  have  "  made  little  fishes  talk 
like  whales."  And  in  the  nineteenth  century  the  American 
branch  of  English  literature  has  had  a  group  of  essayists 
less  numerous  than  that  which  adorned  the  British  branch, 
but  not  less  interesting  or  less  important  to  their  own 
people. 

Among  these  American  essayists  we  may  find  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  writers, — poets  adventuring  themselves 
in  prose,  novelists  eschewing  story-telling,  statesmen  turn 
ing  for  a  moment  to  matters  of  less  weight,  men  of  science 
and  men  of  affairs  chatting  about  themselves  and  airing 
their  opinions  at  large.  In  their  hands,  as  in  the  hands 
of  their  British  contemporaries,  the  essay  remains  infinitely 
various,  refusing  to  conform  to  any  single  type,  and  insist- 


x  INTRODUCTION 

ing  on  being  itself  and  on  expressing  its  author.  We  find 
in  the  best  of  these  American  essayists  the  familiar  style 
and  the  everyday  vocabulary,  the  apparent  simplicity  and 
the  seeming  absence  of  effort,  the  horror  of  pedantry  and 
the  scorn  of  affectation,  which  are  the  abiding  characteris 
tics  of  the  true  essay.  We  find  also  the  flavor  of  good  talk, 
of  the  sprightly  conversation  that  may  sparkle  in  front  of  a 
wood  fire  and  that  often  vanishes  with  the  curling  blue 
smoke. 

It  is  the  bounden  duty  of  every  maker  of  an  anthology  to 
set  forth  the  principles  that  have  guided  him  in  the  choice 
of  the  examples  he  is  proffering  to  the  public.  The  present 
editor  has  excluded  purely  literary  criticism,  as  not  quite 
falling  within  the  boundaries  of  the  essay,  properly  so- 
called.  Then  he  has  avoided  all  set  orations,  although  he 
has  not  hesitated  to  include  more  than  one  paper  originally 
prepared  to  be  read  aloud  by  its  writer,  because  these  ex 
amples  seemed  to  him  to  fall  within  the  boundaries  of  the 
essay.  (Nearly  all  of  Emerson's  essays,  it  may  be  noted, 
had  been  lectures  in  an  early  stage  of  their  existence.) 
Furthermore  he  has  omitted  all  fiction,  strictly  to  be  so 
termed,  although  he  would  gladly  have  welcomed  an  apo 
logue  like  Mark  Twain's  "  Traveling  with  a  Reformer," 
which  is  essentially  an  essay  despite  its  use  of  dialogue.  He 
has  included  also  Franklin's  "  Dialogue  with  the  Gout/' 
which  is  instinct  with  the  true  spirit  of  the  essay ;  and  he  has 
accepted  as  essays  Franklin's  "  Ephemera "  and  "  The 
Whistle,"  although  they  were  both  of  them  letters  to  the 
same  lady.  As  the  essay  flowers  out  of  leisure  and  out  of 
culture,  and  as  there  has  been  in  the  United  States  no  long 
background  of  easy  tranquillity,  there  is  in  the  American 
branch  of  English  literature  a  relative  deficiency  in  certain 
of  the  lighter  forms  of  the  essay  more  abundantly  repre 
sented  in  the  British  branch;  and  therefore  the  less  fre- 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

quent  examples  of  these  lighter  forms  have  here  been  com 
panioned  by  graver  discussions,  never  grave  enough,  how 
ever,  to  be  described  as  disquisitions.  Finally,  every  se 
lection  is  presented  entire,  except  that  Dana's  paper  on 
Kean's  acting  has  been  shorn  of  a  needless  preparatory 
note. 

BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 


[The  essays  by  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne, 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Henry  D.  Thoreau,  Thomas  Wentworth 
Higginson,  Charles  Dudley  Warner,  and  John  Burroughs,  are  used 
by  permission  of,  and  by  arrangement  with,  The  Houghton  Mifflin 
Company,  the  authorized  publishers  of  their  works.  The  essays  by 
George  William  Curtis  and  by  William  Dean  Howells  are  used  by 
permission  of  Harper  and  Brothers.  The  essays  by  William  Crary 
Brownell,  Edward  Sanford  Martin,  Nicholas  Murray  Butler,  and 
Theodore  Roosevelt  are  printed  by  permission  of  Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons,  the  essay  by  Charles  William  Eliot  by  permission  of 
The  Century  Company,  and  that  by  Henry  James  by  permission  of 
The  Macmillan  Company.] 


THE  EPHEMERA:  AN  EMBLEM  OF  HUMAN 
LIFE 

TO   MADAME   BRILLON,   OF   PASSY 
BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

You  may  remember,  my  dear  friend,  that  when  we  lately 
spent  that  happy  day  in  the  delightful  garden  and  sweet 
society  of  the  Moulin  Joly,  I  stopped  a  little  in  one  of  our 
walks,  and  stayed  some  time  behind  the  company.  We 
had  been  shown  numberless  skeletons  of  a  kind  of  little 
fly,  called  an  ephemera,  whose  successive  generations,  we 
were  told,  were  bred  and  expired  within  the  day.  I  hap 
pened  to  see  a  living  company  of  them  on  a  leaf,  who  ap 
peared  to  be  engaged  in  conversation.  You  know  I 
understand  all  the  inferior  animal  tongues.  My  too  great 
application  to  the  study  of  them  is  the  best  excuse  I  can 
give  for  the  little  progress  I  have  made  in  your  charming 
language.  I  listened  through  curiosity  to  the  discourse  of 
these  little  creatures;  but  as  they,  in  their  national  vivacity, 
spoke  three  or  four  together,  I  could  make  but  little  of 
their  conversation.  I  found,  however,  by  some  broken 
expressions  that  I  heard  now  and  then,  they  were  disputing 
warmly  on  the  merit  of  two  foreign  musicians,  one  a  cousin, 
the  other  a  moscheto;  in  which  dispute  they  spent  their 
time,  seemingly  as  regardless  of  the  shortness  of  life  as  if 
they  had  been  sure  of  living  a  month.  Happy  people! 
thought  I;  you  are  certainly  under  a  wise,  just,  and  mild 
government,  since  you  have  no  public  grievances  to  com- 


2  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

plain  of,  nor  any  subject  of  contention  but  the  perfections 
and  imperfections  of  foreign  music.  I  turned  my  head 
from  them  to  an  old  gray-headed  one,  who  was  single  on 
another  leaf,  and  talking  to  himself.  Being  amused  with 
his  soliloquy,  I  put  it  down  in  writing,  in  hopes  it  will 
likewise  amuse  her  to  whom  I  am  so  much  indebted  for  the 
most  pleasing  of  all  amusements,  her  delicious  company 
and  heavenly  harmony. 

"  It  was,"  said  he,  "  the  opinion  of  learned  philosophers 
of  our  race,  who  lived  and  flourished  long  before  my  time, 
that  this  vast  world,  the  Moulin  Joly,  could  not  itself  sub 
sist  more  than  eighteen  hours ;  and  I  think  there  was  some 
foundation  for  that  opinion,  since,  by  the  apparent  motion 
of  the  great  luminary  that  gives  life  to  all  nature,  and 
which  in  my  time  has  evidently  declined  considerably 
towards  the  ocean  at  the  end  of  our  earth,  it  must  then 
finish  its  course,  be  extinguished  in  the  waters  that  sur 
round  us,  and  leave  the  world  in  cold  and  darkness,  neces 
sarily  producing  universal  death  and  destruction.  I  have 
lived  seven  of  those  hours,  a  great  age,  being  no  less  than 
four  hundred  and  twenty  minutes  of  time.  How  very  few 
of  us  continue  so  long!  I  have  seen  generations  born, 
flourish,  and  expire.  My  present  friends  are  the  children 
and  grandchildren  of  the  friends  of  my  youth,  who  are 
now,  alas,  no  more!  And  I  must  soon  follow  them;  for, 
by  the  course  of  nature,  though  still  in  health,  I  cannot 
expect  to  live  above  seven  or  eight  minutes  longer.  What 
now  avails  all  my  toil  and  labor  in  amassing  honey-dew 
on  this  leaf,  which  I  cannot  live  to  enjoy!  What  the 
political  struggles  I  have  been  engaged  in  for  the  good  of 
my  compatriot  inhabitants  of  this  bush,  or  my  philosophical 
studies  for  the  benefit  of  our  race  in  general !  for  in  politics 
what  can  laws  do  without  morals?  Our  present  race  of 
ephemerae  will  in  a  course  of  minutes  become  corrupt, 


THE  EPHEMERA  :  AN  EMBLEM  OF  HUMAN  LIFE        3 

like  those  of  other  and  older  bushes,  and  consequently  as 
wretched.  And  in  philosophy  how  small  our  progress! 
Alas !  art  is  long,  and  life  is  short !  My  friends  would 
comfort  me  with  the  idea  of  a  name  they  say  I  shall 
leave  behind  me ;  and  they  tell  me  I  have  lived  long  enough 
to  nature  and  to  glory.  But  what  will  fame  be  to  an 
ephemera  who  no  longer  exists?  And  what  will  become 
of  all  history  in  the  eighteenth  hour,  when  the  world  itself, 
even  the  whole  Moulin  Joly,  shall  come  to  its  end  and  be 
buried  in  universal  ruin?" 

To  me,  after  all  my  eager  pursuits,  no  solid  pleasures 
now  remain,  but  the  reflection  of  a  long  life  spent  in 
meaning  well,  the  sensible  conversation  of  a  few  good 
lady  ephemerae,  and  now  and  then  a  kind  smile  and  a 
tune  from  the  ever  amiable  Brillante. 


THE  WHISTLE 

TO   MADAME   BRILLON 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

I  RECEIVED  my  dear  friend's  two  letters,  one  for  Wednes 
day  and  one  for  Saturday.  This  is  again  Wednesday.  I 
do  not  deserve  one  for  to-day,  because  I  have  not  answered 
the  former.  But,  indolent  as  I  am,  and  averse  to  writing, 
the  fear  of  having  no  more  of  your  pleasing  epistles,  if  I  do 
not  contribute  to  the  correspondence,  obliges  me  to  take 
up  my  pen;  and  as  Mr.  B.  has  kindly  sent  me  word  that 
he  sets  out  to-morrow  to  see  you,  instead  of  spending  this 
Wednesday  evening,  as  I  have  done  its  namesakes,  in 
your  delightful  company,  I  sit  down  to  spend  it  in  thinking 
of  you,  in  writing  to  you,  and  in  reading  over  and  over 
again  your  letters. 

I  am  charmed  with  your  description  of  Paradise,  and 
with  your  plan  of  living  there ;  and  I  approve  much  of 
your  conclusion,  that,  in  the  meantime,  we  should  draw 
all  the  good  we  can  from  this  world.  In  my  opinion  we 
might  all  draw  more  good  from  it  than  we  do,  and  suffer 
less  evil,  if  we  would  take  care  not  to  give  too  much  for 
whistles.  For  to  me  it  seems  that  most  of  the  unhappy  peo 
ple  we  meet  with  are  become  so  by  neglect  of  that  caution. 

You  ask  what  I  mean?  You  love  stories,  and  will  ex 
cuse  my  telling  one  of  myself. 

When  I  was  a  child  of  seven  years  old,  my  friends,  on 
a  holiday,  filled  my  pocket  with  coppers.  I  went  directly 
to  a  shop  where  they  sold  toys  for  children;  and  being 

4 


THE  WHISTLE  5 

charmed  with  the  sound  of  a  whistle,  that  I  met  by  the  way 
in  the  hands  of  another  boy,  I  voluntarily  offered  and 
gave  all  my  money  for  one.  I  then  came  home,  and  went 
whistling  all  over  the  house,  much  pleased  with  my  whistle, 
but  disturbing  all  the  family.  My  brothers,  and  sisters, 
and  cousins,  understanding  the  bargain  I  had  made,  told 
me  I  had  given  four  times  as  much  for  it  as  it  was  worth ; 
put  me  in  mind  what  good  things  I  might  have  bought 
with  the  rest  of  the  money;  and  laughed  at  me  so  much 
for  my  folly,  that  I  cried  with  vexation;  and  the  reflection 
gave  me  more  chagrin  than  the  whistle  gave  me  pleasure. 

This,  however,  was  afterwards  of  use  to  me,  the  im 
pression  continuing  on  my  mind ;  so  that  often,  when  I 
was  tempted  to  buy  some-  unnecessary  thing,  I  said  to 
myself,  Don't  give  too  much  for  the  whistle;  and  I  saved 
my  money. 

As  I  grew  up,  came  into  the  world,  and  observed  the 
actions  of  men,  I  thought  I  met  with  many,  very  many, 
who  gave  too  much  for  the  whistle. 

When  I  saw  one  too  ambitious  of  court  favor,  sacrificing 
his  time  in  attendance  on  levees,  his  repose,  his  liberty,  his 
virtue,  and  perhaps  his  friends,  to  attain  it,  I  have  said  to 
myself,  This  man  gives  too  much  for  his  whistle. 

When  I  saw  another  fond  of  popularity,  constantly  em 
ploying  himself  in  political  bustles,  neglecting  his  own  af 
fairs,  and  ruining  them  by  that  neglect,  He  pays,  indeed, 
said  I,  too  much  for  his  ivhistle. 

If  I  knew  a  miser,  who  gave  up  every  kind  of  comfort 
able  living,  all  the  pleasure  of  doing  good  to  others,  all 
the  esteem  of  his  fellow-citizens,  and  the  joys  of  benevo 
lent  friendship,  for  the  sake  of  accumulating  wealth,  Poor 
man,  said  I,  you  pay  too  much  for  your  whistle. 

When  I  met  with  a  man  of  pleasure,  sacrificing  every 
laudable  improvement  of  the  mind,  or  of  his  fortune,  to 


6  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

mere  corporeal  sensations,  and  ruining  his  health  in  their 
pursuit,  Mistaken  man,  said  I,  you  are  providing  pain  for 
yourself,  instead  of  pleasure ;  you  give  too  much  for  your 
whistle. 

If  I  see  one  fond  of  appearance,  or  fine  clothes,  fine 
houses,  fine  furniture,  fine  equipages,  all  above  his  fortune, 
for  which  he  contracts  debts,  and  ends  his  career  in  a 
prison,  Alas!  say  I,  he  has  paid  dear,  very  dear,  for  his 
whistle. 

When  I  see  a  beautiful  sweet-tempered  girl  married  to 
an  ill-natured  brute  of  a  husband,  What  a  pity,  say  I,  that 
she  should  pay  so  much  for  a  whistle ! 

In  short,  I  conceive  that  great  part  of  the  miseries  of 
mankind  are  brought  upon  them  by  the  false  estimates  they 
have  made  of  the  value  of  things,  and  by  their  giving  too 
much  for  their  whistles. 

Yet  I  ought  to  have  charity  for  these  unhappy  people, 
when  I  consider  that,  with  all  this  wisdom  of  which  I 
am  boasting,  there  are  certain  things  in  the  world  so  tempt 
ing,  for  example,  the  apples  of  King  John,  which  happily 
are  not  to  be  bought ;  for  if  they  were  put  to  sale  by  auction, 
I  might  very  easily  be  led  to  ruin  myself  in  the  purchase,  and 
find  that  I  had  once  more  given  too  much  for  the  whistle. 

Adieu,  my  dear  friend,  and  believe  me  ever  yours  very 
sincerely  and  with  unalterable  affection. 


DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  FRANKLIN  AND  THE 
GOUT 

Midnight,  22  October,  1780. 

FRANKLIN.  Eh!  Oh!  eh!  What  have  I  done  to 
merit  these  cruel  sufferings? 

GOUT.  Many  things ;  you  have  ate  and  drank  too  freely, 
and  too  much  indulged  those  legs  of  yours  in  their  in 
dolence. 

FRANKLIN.     Who  is  it  that  accuses  me? 

GOUT.     It  is  I,  even  I,  the  Gout. 

FRANKLIN.     What!  my  enemy  in  person? 

GOUT.     No,  not  your  enemy. 

FRANKLIN.  I  repeat  it,  my  enemy;  for  you  would  not 
only  torment  my  body  to  death,  but  ruin  my  good  name; 
you  reproach  me  as  a  glutton  and  a  tippler ;  now  all  the 
world,  that  knows  me,  will  allow  that  I  am  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other. 

GOUT.  The  world  may  think  as  it  pleases;  it  is  always 
very  complaisant  to  itself,  and  sometimes  to  its  friends; 
but  I  very  well  know  that  the  quantity  of  meat  and  drink 
proper  for  a  man,  who  takes  a  reasonable  degree  of  exercise, 
would  be  too  much  for  another,  who  never  takes  any. 

FRANKLIN.  I  take — eh !  oh ! — as  much  exercise — eh  I — 
as  I  can,  Madam  Gout.  You  know  my  sedentary  state, 
and  on  that  account,  it  would  seem,  Madam  Gout,  as  if  you 
might  spare  me  a  little,  seeing  it  is  not  altogether  my  own 
fault. 

GOUT.  Not  a  jot ;  your  rhetoric  and  your  politeness  are 
thrown  away;  your  apology  avails  nothing.  If  your  situa- 

7 


8  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

tion  in  life  is  a  sedentary  one,  your  amusements,  your 
recreation,  at  least,  should  be  active.  You  ought  to  walk 
or  ride ;  or,  if  the  weather  prevents  that,  play  at  billiards. 
But  let  us  examine  your  course  of  life.  While  the  morn 
ings  are  long,  and  you  have  leisure  to  go  abroad,  what  do 
you  do?  Why,  instead  of  gaining  an  appetite  for  break 
fast,  by  salutary  exercise,  you  amuse  yourself  with  books, 
pamphlets,  or  newspapers,  which  commonly  are  not  worth 
the  reading.  Yet  you  eat  an  inordinate  breakfast,  four 
dishes  of  tea,  with  cream,  and  one  or  two  buttered  toasts, 
with  slices  of  hung  beef,  which  I  fancy  are  not  things  the 
most  easily  digested.  Immediately  afterwards  you  sit  down 
to  write  at  your  desk,  or  converse  with  persons  who  apply 
to  you  on  business.  Thus  the  time  passes  till  one,  without 
any  kind  of  bodily  exercise.  But  all  this  I  could  pardon,  in 
regard,  as  you  say,  to  your  sedentary  condition.  But  what 
is  your  practice  after  dinner?  Walking  in  the  beautiful 
gardens  of  those  friends  with  whom  you  have  dined  would 
be  the  choice  of  men  of  sense;  yours  is  to  be  fixed  down 
to  chess,  where  you  are  found  engaged  for  two  or  three 
hours!  This  is  your  perpetual  recreation,  which  is  the 
least  eligible  of  any  for  a  sedentary  man,  because,  instead 
of  accelerating  the  motion  of  the  fluids,  the  rigid  attention 
it  requires  helps  to  retard  the  circulation  and  obstruct 
internal  secretions.  Wrapt  in  the  speculations  of  this 
wretched  game,  you  destroy  your  constitution.  What  can 
be  expected  from  such  a  course  of  living,  but  a  body  re 
plete  with  stagnant  humors,  ready  to  fall  prey  to  all  kinds 
of  dangerous  maladies,  if  I,  the  Gout,  did  not  occasionally 
bring  you  relief  by  agitating  those  humors,  and  so  purify 
ing  or  dissipating  them?  If  it  was  in  some  nook  or  alley 
in  Paris,  deprived  of  walks,  that  you  played  awhile  at 
chess  after  dinner,  this  might  be  excusable;  but  the  same 
taste  prevails  with  you  in  Passy,  Auteuil,  Montmartre,  or 


DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  FRANKLIN  AND  THE  GOUT        9 

Sanoy,  places  where  there  are  the  finest  gardens  and  walks, 
a  pure  air,  beautiful  women,  and  most  agreeable  and  in 
structive  conversation;  all  which  you  might  enjoy  by  fre 
quenting  the  walks.  But  these  are  rejected  for  this 
abominable  game  of  chess.  Fie,  then,  Mr.  Franklin!  But 
amidst  my  instructions,  I  had  almost  forgot  to  administer 
my  wholesome  corrections;  so  take  that  twinge, — and  that. 

FRANKLIN.  Oh  !  eh !  oh !  Ohhh !  As  much  instruction  as 
you  please,  Madam  Gout,  and  as  many  reproaches;  but 
pray,  Madam,  a  truce  with  your  corrections ! 

GOUT.  No,  Sir,  no, — I  will  not  abate  a  particle  of  what 
is  so  much  for  your  good, — therefore 

FRANKLIN.  Oh!  ehhh! — It  is  not  fair  to  say  I  take  no 
exercise,  when  I  do  very  often,  going  out  to  dine  and  re 
turning  in  my  carriage. 

GOUT.  That,  of  all  imaginable  exercises,  is  the  most 
slight  and  insignificant,  if  you  allude  to  the  motion  of  a 
carriage  suspended  on  springs.  By  observing  the  degree 
of  heat  obtained  by  different  kinds  of  motion,  we  may 
form  an  estimate  of  the  quantity  of  exercise  given  by  each. 
Thus,  for  example,  if  you  turn  out  to  walk  in  winter  with 
cold  feet,  in  an  hour's  time  you  will  be  in  a  glow  all  over; 
ride  on  horseback,  the  same  effect  will  scarcely  be  per 
ceived  by  four  hours'  round  trotting;  but  if  you  loll  in  a 
carriage,  such  as  you  have  mentioned,  you  may  travel  all 
day  and  gladly  enter  the  last  inn  to  warm  your  feet  by  a 
fire.  Flatter  yourself  then  no  longer,  that  half  an  hour's 
airing  in  your  carriage  deserves  the  name  of  exercise. 
Providence  has  appointed  few  to  roll  in  carriages,  while  he 
has  given  to  all  a  pair  of  legs,  which  are  machines  infinitely 
more  commodious  and  serviceable.  Be  grateful,  then,  and 
make  a  proper  use  of  yours.  Would  you  know  how  they 
forward  the  circulation  of  your  fluids,  in  the  very  action 
of  transporting  you  from  place  to  place;  observe  when  you 


io  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

walk,  that  all  your  weight  is  alternately  thrown  from  one 
leg  to  the  other;  this  occasions  a  great  pressure  on  the 
vessels  of  the  foot,  and  repels  their  contents;  when  re 
lieved,  by  the  weight  being  thrown  on  the  other  foot,  the 
vessels  of  the  first  are  allowed  to  replenish,  and,  by  a 
return  of  this  weight,  this  repulsion  again  succeeds;  thus 
accelerating  the  circulation  of  the  blood.  The  heat  pro 
duced  in  any  given  time  depends  on  the  degree  of  this 
acceleration;  the  fluids  are  shaken,  the  humors  attenuated, 
the  secretions  facilitated,  and  all  goes  well;  the  cheeks  are 
ruddy,  and  health  is  established.  Behold  your  fair  friend 
at  Auteuil ;  a  lady  who  received  from  bounteous  nature 
more  really  useful  science  than  half  a  dozen  such  pre 
tenders  to  philosophy  as  you  have  been  able  to  extract  from 
all  your  books.  When  she  honors  you  with  a  visit,  it  is 
on  foot.  She  walks  all  hours  of  the  day,  and  leaves  in 
dolence,  and  its  concomitant  maladies,  to  be  endured  by 
her  horses.  In  this,  see  at  once  the  preservative  of  her 
health  and  personal  charms.  But  when  you  go  to  Auteuil, 
you  must  have  your  carriage,  though  it  is  no  farther  from 
Passy  to  Auteuil  than  from  Auteuil  to  Passy. 

FRANKLIN.     Your  reasonings  grow  very  tiresome. 

GOUT.  I  stand  corrected.  I  will  be  silent  and  continue 
my  office ;  take  that,  and  that. 

FRANKLIN.     Oh!     Ohh!    Talk  on,  I  pray  you. 

GOUT.  No,  no;  I  have  a  good  number  of  twinges  for 
you  to-night,  and  you  may  be  sure  of  some  more  to 
morrow. 

FRANKLIN.  What,  with  such  a  fever!  I  shall  go  dis 
tracted.  Oh !  eh !  Can  no  one  bear  it  for  me  ? 

GOUT.  Ask  that  of  your  horses;  they  have  served  you 
faithfully. 

FRANKLIN.  How  can  you  so  cruelly  sport  with  my 
torments  ? 


DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  FRANKLIN  AND  THE  GOUT      n 

GOUT.  Sport!  I  am  very  serious.  I  have  here  a  list 
of  offenses  against  your  own  health  distinctly  written,  and 
can  justify  every  stroke  inflicted  on  you. 

FRANKLIN.     Read  it  then. 

1    GOUT.     It  is  too  long  a  detail ;  but  I  will  briefly  mention 
some  particulars. 

FRANKLIN.     Proceed.     I  am  all  attention, 

GOUT.  Do  you  remember  how  often  you  have  promised 
yourself,  the  following  morning,  a  walk  in  the  grove  of 
Boulogne,  in  the  garden  de  la  Muette,  or  in  your  own 
garden,  and  have  violated  your  promise,  alleging,  at  one 
time,  it  was  too  cold,  at  another  too  warm,  too  windy,  too 
moist,  or  what  else  you  pleased;  when  in  truth  it  was  too 
nothing,  but  your  insuperable  love  of  ease? 

FRANKLIN.  That  I  confess  may  have  happened  occa 
sionally,  probably  ten  times  in  a  year. 

GOUT.  Your  confession  is  very  far  short  of  the  truth; 
the  gross  amount  is  one  hundred  and  ninety-nine  times. 

FRANKLIN.     Is  it  possible? 

GOUT.  So  possible,  that  it  is  fact ;  you  may  rely  on  the 
accuracy  of  my  statement.  You  know  M.  Brillon's  gar 
dens,  and  what  fine  walks  they  contain;  you  know  the 
handsome  flight  of  an  hundred  steps,  which  lead  from  the 
terrace  above  to  the  lawn  below.  You  have  been  in  the 
practice  of  visiting  this  amiable  family  twice  a  week,  after 
dinner,  and  it  is  a  maxim  of  your  own,  that  "  a  man  may 
take  as  much  exercise  in  walking  a  mile,  up  and  down 
stairs,  as  in  ten  on  level  ground."  What  an  opportunity 
was  here  for  you  to  have  had  exercise  in  both  these  ways ! 
Did  you  embrace  it,  and  how  often? 

FRANKLIN.  I  cannot  immediately  answer  that  ques 
tion. 

GOUT.     I  will  do  it  for  you;  not  once. 

FRANKLIN.     Not  once? 


12  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

GOUT.  Even  so.  During  the  summer  you  went  there 
at  six  o'clock.  You  found  the  charming  lady,  with  her 
lovely  children  and  friends,  eager  to  walk  with  you,  and 
entertain  you  with  their  agreeable  conversation;  and  what 
has  been  your  choice?  Why,  to  sit  on  the  terrace,  satisfy 
yourself  with  the  fine  prospect,  and  passing  your  eye  over 
the  beauties  of  the  garden  below,  without  taking  one  step 
to  descend  and  walk  about  in  them.  On  the  contrary,  you 
call  for  tea  and  the  chess-board ;  and  lo !  you  are  occupied 
in  your  seat  till  nine  o'clock,  and  that  besides  two  hours' 
play  after  dinner;  and  then,  instead  of  walking  home, 
which  would  have  bestirred  you  a  little,  you  step  into  your 
carriage.  How  absurd  to  suppose  that  all  this  careless 
ness  can  be  reconcilable  with  health,  without  my  inter 
position  ! 

FRANKLIN.  I  am  convinced  now  of  the  justness  of 
Poor  Richard's  remark,  that  "  Our  debts  and  our  sins  are 
always  greater  than  we  think  for." 

GOUT.  So  it  is.  You  philosophers  are  sages  in  your 
maxims,  and  fools  in  your  conduct. 

FRANKLIN.  But  do  you  charge  among  my  crimes,  that 
I  return  in  a  carriage  from  M.  Brillon's? 

GOUT.  Certainly;  for,  having  been  seated  all  the  while, 
you  cannot  object  the  fatigue  of  the  day,  and  cannot  want 
therefore  the  relief  of  a  carriage. 

FRANKLIN.  What  then  would  you  have  me  do  with  my 
carriage  ? 

GOUT.  Burn  it  if  you  choose;  you  would  at  least  get 
heat  out  of  it  once  in  this  way ;  or,  if  you  dislike  that  pro 
posal,  here's  another  for  you;  observe  the  poor  peasants, 
who  work  in  the  vineyards  and  grounds  about  the  villages 
of  Passy,  Auteuil,  Chaillot,  etc. ;  you  may  find  every  day 
among  these  deserving  creatures,  four  or  five  old  men  and 
women,  bent  and  perhaps  crippled  by  weight  of  years,  and 


DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  FRANKLIN  AND  THE  GOUT       13 

too  long  and  too  great  labor.  After  a  most  fatiguing  day, 
these  people  have  to  trudge  a  mile  or  two  to  their  smoky 
huts.  Order  your  coachman  to  set  them  down.  This  is 
an  act  that  will  be  good  for  your  soul;  and,  at  the  same 
time,  after  your  visit  to  the  Brillons,  if  you  return 'on  foot, 
that  will  be  good  for  your  body. 

FRANKLIN.     Ah!  how  tiresome  you  are! 

GOUT.  Well,  then,  to  my  office ;  it  should  not  be  forgot 
ten  that  I  am  your  physician.  There. 

FRANKLIN.     Ohhh !  what  a  devil  of  a  physician ! 

GOUT.  How  ungrateful  you  are  to  say  so !  Is  it  not  I 
who,  in  the  character  of  your  physician,  have  saved  you 
from  the  palsy,  dropsy,  and  apoplexy?  one  or  other  of 
which  would  have  done  for  you  long  ago,  but  for  me. 

FRANKLIN.  I  submit,  and  thank  you  for  the  past,  but 
entreat  the  discontinuance  of  your  visits  for  the  future; 
for,  in  my  mind,  one  had  better  die  than  be  cured  so  dole 
fully.  Permit  me  just  to  hint,  that  I  have  also  not  been 
unfriendly  to  you.  I  never  feed  physician  or  quack  of  any 
kind,  to  enter  the  list  against  you;  if  then  you  do  not 
leave  me  to  my  repose,  it  may  be  said  you  are  ungrateful 
too. 

GOUT.  I  can  scarcely  acknowledge  that  as  any  objection. 
As  to  quacks,  I  despise  them;  they  may  kill  you  indeed, 
but  cannot  injure  me.  And,  as  to  regular  physicians,  they 
are  at  last  convinced  that  the  gout,  in  such  a  subject  as  you 
are,  is  no  disease,  but  a  remedy;  and  wherefore  cure  a 
remedy  ? — but  to  our  business, — there. 

FRANKLIN.  Oh!  oh! — for  Heaven's  sake  leave  me!  and 
I  promise  faithfully  never  more  to  play  at  chess,  but  to 
take  exercise  daily,  and  live  temperately. 

GOUT.  I  know  you  too  well.  You  promise  fair;  but, 
after  a  few  months  of  good  health,  you  will  return  to  your 
old  habits;  your  fine  promises  will  be  forgotten  like  the 


14  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

forms  of  the  last  year's  clouds.  Let  us  then  finish  the  ac 
count,  and  I  will  go.  But  I  leave  you  with  an  assurance 
of  visiting  you  again  at  a  proper  time  and  place;  for  my 
object  is  your  good,  and  you  are  sensible  now  that  I  am 
your  real  friend. 


CONSOLATION  FOR  THE  OLD  BACHELOR 
FRANCIS  HOPKINSON 

MR.  AITKEN  :  Your  Old  Bachelor  having  pathetically 
represented  the  miseries  of  his  solitary  situation,  severely 
reproaching  himself  for  having  neglected  to  marry  in  his 
younger  days,  I  would  fain  alleviate  his  distress,  by  show 
ing  that  it  is  possible  he  might  have  been  as  unhappy — even 
in  the  honorable  state  of  matrimony. 

I  am  a  shoemaker  in  this  city,  and  by  my  industry  and 
attention  have  been  enabled  to  maintain  my  wife  and  a 
daughter,  now  six  years  old,  in  comfort  and  respect ;  and  to 
lay  by  a  little  at  the  year's  end,  against  a  rainy  day. 

My  good  wife  had  long  teased  me  to  take  her  to  New 
York,  in  order  to  visit  Mrs.  Snip,  the  lady  of  an  eminent 
taylor  in  that  city,  and  her  cousin;  from  whom  she  had 
received  many  pressing  invitations. 

This  jaunt  had  been  the  daily  subject  of  discussion  at 
breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper  for  a  month  before  the  time 
fixed  upon  for  putting  it  in  execution.  As  our  daughter 
Jenny  could  by  no  means  be  left  at  home,  many  and  great 
were  the  preparations  to  equip  Miss  and  her  Mamma  for 
this  important  journey;  and  yet,  as  my  wife  assured  me, 
there  was  nothing  provided  but  what  was  absolutely  neces 
sary,  and  which  we  could  not  possibly  do  without.  My 
purse  sweat  at  every  pore. 

At  last,  the  long-expected  day  arrived,  preceded  by  a 
very  restless  night.  For,  as  my  wife  could  not  sleep  for 
thinking  on  the  approaching  jaunt,  neither  would  she  suf- 


16  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

fer  me  to  repose  in  quiet.  If  I  happened  through  weari- 
someness  to  fall  into  a  slumber,  she  immediately  roused 
me  by  some  unseasonable  question  or  remark :  frequently 
asking  if  I  was  sure  the  apprentice  had  greased  the  chair- 
wheels,  and  seen  that  the  harness  was  clean  and  in  good 
order;  often  observing  how  surprised  her  cousin  Snip 
would  be  to  see  us ;  and  as  often  wondering  how  poor 
dear  Miss  Jenny  would  bear  the  fatigue  of  the  journey. 
Thus  past  the  night  in  delightful  discourse,  if  that  can 
with  propriety  be  called  a  discourse,  wherein  my  wife  was 
the  only  speaker — my  replies  never  exceeding  the  mono 
syllables  yes  or  no,  murmured  between  sleeping  and  waking. 

No  sooner  was  it  fair  daylight,  but  up  started  my  no 
table  wife,  and  soon  roused  the  whole  family.  The  little 
trunk  was  stuffed  with  baggage,  even  to  bursting,  and  tied 
behind  the  chair,  and  the  chair-box  was  crammed  with 
trumpery  which  we  could  not  possibly  do  without.  Miss 
Jenny  was  drest,  and  breakfast  devoured  in  haste :  the 
old  negro  wench  was  called  in,  and  the  charge  of  the  house 
committed  to  her  care;  and  the  two  apprentices  and  the 
hired  maid  received  many  wholesome  cautions  and  instruc 
tions  for  their  conduct  during  our  absence,  all  which  they 
most  liberally  promised  to  observe;  whilst  I  attended,  with 
infinite  patience,  the  adjustment  of  these  preliminaries. 

At  length,  however,  we  set  off,  and,  turning  the  first 
corner,  lost  sight  of  our  habitation,  with  great  regret  on  my 
part,  and  no  less  joy  on  the  part  of  Miss  Jenny  and  her 
Mamma. 

When  we  got  to  Poole's  Bridge,  there  happened  to  be  a 
great  concourse  of  wagons,  carts,  &c.,  so  that  we  could  not 
pass  for  some  time — Miss  Jenny  frightened — my  wife  very 
impatient  and  uneasy — wondered  I  did  not  call  out  to  those 
impudent  fellows  to  make  way  for  us ;  observing  that  1 
had  not  the  spirit  of  a  louse.  Having  got  through  this 


CONSOLATION  FOR  THE  OLD  BACHELOR  17 

difficulty,  we  proceeded  without  obstruction — my  wife  in 
good-humor  again — Miss  Jenny  in  high  spirits.  At  Ken 
sington  fresh  troubles  arise.  "  Bless  me,  Miss  Jenny,"  says 
my  wife,  "  where  is  the  bandbox?"  "I  don't  know, 
Mamma ;  the  last  time  I  saw  it,  it  was  on  the  table  in  your 
room."  What's  to  be  done?  The  bandbox  is  left  behind 
— it  contains  Miss  Jenny's  new  wire-cap — there  is  no  pos 
sibility  of  doing  without  it — as  well  no  New  York  as  no 
wire-cap — there  is  no  alternative,  we  must  e'en  go  back  for 
it.  Teased  and  mortified  as  I  was,  my  good  wife  adminis 
tered  consolation  by  observing,  "  That  it  was  my  business 
to  see  that  everything  was  put  into  the  chair  that  ought 
to  be,  but  there  was  no  depending  upon  me  for  anything; 
and  that  she  plainly  saw  I  undertook  this  journey  with  an 
ill-will,  merely  because  she  had  set  her  heart  upon  it." 
Silent  patience  was  my  only  remedy.  An  hour  and  a  half 
restored  to  us  this  essential  requisite — the  wire-cap — and 
brought  us  back  to  the  place  where  we  first  missed  it. 

After  innumerable  difficulties  and  unparalleled  dangers, 
occasioned  by  ruts,  stumps,  and  tremendous  bridges,  we 
arrived  at  Neshamony  ferry:  but  how  to  cross  it  was  the 
question.  My  wife  protested  that  neither  she  nor  Jenny 
would  go  over«  in  the  boat  with  the  horse.  I  assured  her 
that  there  was  not  the  least  danger;  that  the  horse  was  as 
quiet  as  a  dog,  and  that  I  would  hold  him  by  the  bridle  all 
the  way.  These  assurances  had  little  weight:  the  most 
forcible  argument  was  that  she  must  go  that  way  or  not  at 
all,  for  there  was  no  other  boat  to  be  had.  Thus  persuaded, 
she  ventured  in — the  flies  were  troublesome — the  horse 
kicked — my  wife  in  panics — Miss  Jenny  in  tears.  Ditto  at 
Trenton-ferry. 

As  we  started  pretty  early,  and  as  the  days  were  long, 
we  reached  Trenton  by  two  o'clock.  Here  we  dined.  My 
wife  found  fault  with  everything;  and  whilst  she  disposed 


i8  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

of  what  I  thought  a  tolerable  hearty  meal,  declared  there 
was  nothing  fit  to  eat.  Matters,  however,  would  have  gone 
on  pretty  well,  but  Miss  Jenny  began  to  cry  with  the  tooth 
ache. — sad  lamentations  over  Miss  Jenny — all  my  fault  be 
cause  I  had  not  made  the  glazier  replace  a  broken  pane  in 
her  chamber  window.  N.  B.  I  had  been  twice  for  him, 
and  he  promised  to  come,  but  was  not  so  good  as  his  word. 

After  dinner  we  again  entered  upon  our  journey — my 
wife  in  good-humor — Miss  Jenny's  toothache  much  easier — 
various  chat — I  acknowledge  everything  my  wife  says  for 
fear  of  discomposing  her.  We  arrive  in  good  time  at 
Princetown.  My  wife  and  daughter  admire  the  College.  We 
refresh  ourselves  with  tea,  and  go  to  bed  early,  in  order  to 
be  up  by  times  for  the  next  day's  expedition. 

In  the  morning  we  set  off  again  in  tolerable  good-humor, 
and  proceeded  happily  as  far  as  Rocky-hill.  Here  my  wife's 
fears  and  terrors  returned  with  great  force.  I  drove  as 
carefully  as  possible;  but  coming  to  a  place  where  one  of 
the  wheels  must  unavoidably  go  over  the  point  of  a  small 
rock,  my  wife,  in  a  great  fright,  seized  hold  of  one  of  the 
reins,  which  happening  to  be  the  wrong  one,  she  pulled  the 
horse  so  as  to  force  the  wheel  higher  up  the  rock  than  it 
would  otherwise  have  gone,  and  overset  the  chair.  We 
were  all  tumbled  hickledy-pickledy,  into  the  road — Miss 
Jenny's  face  all  bloody — the  woods  echo  to  her  cries — my 
wife  in  a  fainting-fit — and  I  in  great  misery;  secretly  and 
most  devoutly  wishing  cousin  Snip  at  the  devil.  Matters 
begin  to  mend — my  wife  recovers — Miss  Jenny  has  only  re 
ceived  a  slight  scratch  on  one  of  her  cheeks — the  horse 
stands  quite  still,  and  none  of  the  harness  broke.  Matters 
grew  worse  again;  the  twine  with  which  the  bandbox  was 
tied  had  broke  in  the  fall,  and  the  aforesaid  wire-cap  lay 
soaking  in  a  nasty  mudpuddle — grievous  lamentations  over 
the  wire-cap — all  my  fault  because  I  did  not  tie  it  better — 


CONSOLATION  FOR  THE  OLD  BACHELOR  19 

no  remedy — no  wire-caps  to  be  bought  at  Rocky-hill.  At 
night  my  wife  discovered  a  small  bruise  on  her  hip — was 
apprehensive  it  might  mortify — did  not  know  but  the  bone 
might  be  broken  or  splintered — many  instances  of  mortifica 
tions  occasioned  by  small  injuries. 

After  passing  unhurt  over  the  imminent  dangers  of 
Passayack  and  Hackensack  rivers,  and  the  yet  more  tre 
mendous  horrors  of  Pawlas-hook  ferry,  we  arrived,  at  the 
close  of  the  third  day,  at  cousin  Snip's  in  the  city  of  New 
York. 

Here  we  sojourned  a  tedious  week;  my  wife  spent  as 
much  money  as  would  have  maintained  my  family  for  a 
month  at  home,  in  purchasing  a  hundred  useless  articles 
which  we  could  not  possibly  do  without;  and  every  night 
when  we  went  to  bed  fatigued  me  with  encomiums  on  her 
cousin  Snip;  leading  to  a  history  of  the  former  grandeur  of 
her  family,  and  concluding  with  insinuations  that  I  did  not 
treat  her  with  the  attention  and  respect  I  ought. 

On  the  seventh  day  my  wife  and  cousin  Snip  had  a  pretty 
warm  altercation  respecting  the  comparative  elegancies  and 
advantages  of  New  York  and  Philadelphia.  The  dispute 
ran  high,  and  many  aggravating  words  past  between  the 
two  advocates.  The  next  morning  my  wife  declared  that 
my  business  would  not  admit  of  a  longer  absence  from  home 
— and  so  after  much  ceremonious  complaisance — in  which 
my  wife  was  by  no  means  exceeded  by  her  very  polite 
cousin— we  left  the  famous  city  of  New  York;  and  I  with 
heart-felt  satisfaction  looked  forward  to  the  happy  period 
of  our  safe  arrival  in  Water-street,  Philadelphia. 

But  this  blessing  was  not  to  be  obtained  without  much 
vexation  and  trouble.  But  lest  I  should  seem  tedious  I 
shall  not  recount  the  adventures  of  our  return — how  we 
were  caught  in  a  thunderstorm — how  our  horse  failed,  by 
which  we  were  benighted  three  miles  from  our  stage — how 


20  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

my  wife's  panics  returned — how  Miss  Jenny  howled,  and 
how  very  miserable  I  was  made.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that, 
after  many  distressing  disasters,  we  arrived  at  the  door  of 
our  own  habitation  in  Water-street. 

No  sooner  had  we  entered  the  house  than  we  were  in 
formed  that  one  of  my  apprentices  had  run  away  with  the 
hired-maid,  nobody  knew  where;  the  old  negro  had  got 
drunk,  -fallen  into  the  fire,  and  burnt  out  one  of  her 
eyes ;  and  our  best  china-bowl  was  broken. 

My  good  wife  contrived,  with  her  usual  ingenuity,  to 
throw  the  blame  of  all  these  misfortunes  upon  me.  As  this 
was  a  consolation  to  which  I  had  been  long  accustomed  in 
all  untoward  cases,  I  had  recourse  to  my  usual  remedy, 
viz.,  silent  patience.  After  sincerely  praying  that  I  might 
never  more  see  cousin  Snip,  I  sat  industriously  down  to 
my  trade,  in  order  to  retrieve  my  manifold  losses. 

This  is  only  a  miniature  picture  of  the  married  state, 
which  I  present  to  your  Old  Bachelor,  in  hopes  it  may 
abate  his  choler,  and  reconcile  him  to  a  single  life.  But,  if 
this  opiate  should  not  be  sufficient  to  give  him  some  ease,  I 
may,  perhaps,  send  him  a  stronger  dose  hereafter. 


JOHN  BULL 
WASHINGTON  IRVING 

"An  old  song,  made  by  an  aged  old  pate, 
Of  an  old  worshipful  gentleman  who  had  a  great  estate, 
That  kept  a  brave  old  house  at  a  bountiful  rate, 
And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his  gate. 
With  an  old  study  fill'd  full  of  learned  old  books, 
With  an  old  reverend  chaplain,  you  might  know  him  by  his  looks, 
With  an  old  buttery  hatch  worn  quite  off  the  hooks, 
And  an  old  kitchen  that  maintained  half-a-dozen  old  cooks. 
Like  an  old  courtier,  etc." 

— OLD  SONG. 

THERE  is  no  species  of  humor  in  which  the  English  more 
excel,  than  that  which  consists  in  caricaturing  and  giving 
ludicrous  appellations,  or  nicknames.  In  this  way  they 
have  whimsically  designated,  not  merely  individuals,  but 
nations;  and,  in  their  fondness  for  pushing  a  joke,  they  have 
not  spared  even  themselves.  One  would  think  that,  in  per 
sonifying  itself,  a  nation  would  be  apt  to  picture  something 
grand,  heroic  and  imposing,  but  it  is  characteristic  of  the 
peculiar  humor  of  the  English,  and  of  their  love  for  what 
is  blunt,  comic,  and  familiar,  that  they  have  embodied  their 
national  oddities  in  the  figure  of  a  sturdy,  corpulent  old 
fellow,  with  a  three-cornered  hat,  red  waistcoat,  leather 
breeches,  and  stout  oaken  cudgel.  Thus  they  have  taken  a 
singular  delight  in  exhibiting  their  most  private  foibles  in 
a  laughable  point  of  view;  and  have  been  so  successful  in 
their  delineations,  that  there  is  scarcely  a  being  in  actual 
existence  more  absolutely  present  to  the  public  mind  than 
that  eccentric  personage,  John  Bull, 

21 


22  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

Perhaps  the  continual  contemplation  of  the  character  thus 
drawn  of  them  has  contributed  to  fix  it  upon  the  nation ; 
and  thus  to  give  reality  to  what  at  first  may  have  been 
painted  in  a  great  measure  from  the  imagination.  Men 
are  apt  to  acquire  peculiarities  that  are  continually  ascribed 
to  them.  The  common  orders  of  English  seem  wonderfully 
captivated  with  the  beau  ideal  which  they  have  formed  of 
John  Bull,  and  endeavor  to  act  up  to  the  broad  caricature 
that  is  perpetually  before  their  eyes.  Unluckily,  they  some 
times  make  their  boasted  Bull-ism  an  apology  for  their 
prejudice  or  grossness;  and  this  I  have  especially  noticed 
among  those  truly  homebred  and  genuine  sons  of  the  soil 
who  have  never  migrated  'beyond  the  sound  of  Bow-bells. 
If  one  of  these  should  be  a  little  uncouth  in  speech,  and 
apt  to  utter  impertinent  truths,  he  confesses  that  he  is  a 
real  John  Bull,  and  always  speaks  his  mind.  If  he  now 
and  then  flies  into  an  unreasonable  burst  of  passion  about 
trifles,  he  observes,  that  John  Bull  is  a  choleric  old  blade, 
but  then  his  passion  is  over  in  a  moment,  and  he  bears  no 
malice.  If  he  betrays  a  coarseness  of  taste,  and  an  insensi 
bility  to  foreign  refinements,  he  thanks  heaven  for  his 
ignorance — he  is  a  plain  John  Bull,  and  has  no  relish  for 
frippery  and  nicknacks.  His  very  proneness  to  be  gulled 
by  strangers,  and  to  pay  extravagantly  for  absurdities,  is 
excused  under  the  plea  of  munificence — for  John  is  always 
more  generous  than  wise. 

Thus,  under  the  name  of  John  Bull,  he  will  contrive  to 
argue  every  fault  into  a  merit,  and  will  frankly  convict 
himself  of  being  the  honestest  fellow  in  existence. 

However  little,  therefore,  the  character  may  have  suited 
in  the  first  instance,  it  has  gradually  adapted  itself  to  the 
nation,  or  rather  they  have  adapted  themselves  to  each 
other;  and  a  stranger  who  wishes  to  study  English  pe 
culiarities,  may  gather  much  valuable  information  from 


JOHN  BULL  23 

the  innumerable  portraits  of  John  Bull,  as  exhibited  in 
the  windows  of  the  caricature-shops.  Still,  however,  he 
is  one  of  those  fertile  humorists,  that  are  continually 
throwing  out  new  portraits,  and  presenting  different  aspects 
from  different  points  of  view;  and,  oft<  i  as  he  has  been 
described,  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  give  a  slight 
sketch  of  him,  such  as  he  has  met  my  eye. 

John  Bull,  to  all  appearance,  is  a  plain  downright  matter- 
of-fact  fellow,  with  much  less  of  poetry  about  him  than 
rich  prose.  There  is  little  of  romance  in  his  nature,  but 
a  vast  deal  of  strong  natural  feeling.  He  excels  in  humor 
more  than  in  wit ;  is  jolly  rather  than  gay ;  melancholy 
rather  than  morose;  can  easily  be  moved  to  a  sudden  tear, 
or  surprised  into  a  broad  laugh;  but  he  loathes  sentiment, 
and  has  no  turn  for  light  pleasantry.  He  is  a  boon  com 
panion,  if  you  allow  him  to  have  his  humor,  and  to  talk 
about  himself;  and  he  will  stand  by  a  friend  in  a  quarrel, 
with  life  and  purse,  however  soundly  he  may  be  cudgeled. 

In  this  last  respect,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  has  a  propensity 
to  be  somewhat  too  ready.  He  is  a  busy-minded  personage, 
who  thinks  not  merely  for  himself  and  family,  but  for  all 
the  country  round,  and  is  most  generously  disposed  to  be 
everybody's  champion.  He  is  continually  volunteering  his 
services  to  settle  his  neighbors'  affairs,  and  takes  it  in  great 
dudgeon  if  they  engage  in  any  matter  of  consequence  with 
out  asking  his  advice;  though  he  seldom  engages  in  any 
friendly  office  of  the  kind  without  finishing  by  getting  into 
a  squabble  with  all  parties,  and  then  railing  bitterly  at  their 
ingratitude.  He  unluckily  took  lessons  in  his  youth  in  the 
noble  science  of  defense,  and  having  accomplished  himself 
in  the  use  of  his  limbs  and  his  weapons,  and  become  a  per 
fect  master  at  boxing  and  cudgel-play,  he  has  had  a  trouble 
some  life  of  it  ever  since.  He  cannot  hear  of  a  quarrel 
between  the  most  distant  of  his  neighbors,  but  he  begins 


24  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

incontinently  to  fumble  with  the  head  of  his  cudgel,  and 
consider  whether  his  interest  or  honor  does  not  require  that 
he  should  meddle  in  the  broil.  Indeed  he  has  extended  his 
relations  of  pride  and  policy  so  completely  over  the  whole 
country,  that  no  event  can  take  place,  without  infringing 
some  of  his  finely-spun  rights  and  dignities.  Couched  in 
his  little  domain,  with  these  filaments  stretching  forth  in 
every  direction,  he  is  like  some  choleric,  bottle-bellied  old 
spider,  who  has  woven  his  web  over  a  whole  chamber,  so 
that  a  fly  cannot  buzz,  nor  a  breeze  blow,  without  startling 
his  repose,  and  causing  him  to  sally  forth  wrathfully  from 
his  den. 

Though  really  a  good-hearted,  good-tempered  old  fellow 
at  bottom,  yet  he  is  singularly  fond  of  being  in  the  midst 
of  contention.  It  is  one  of  his  peculiarities,  however,  that 
he  only  relishes  the  beginning  of  an  affray ;  he  always  goes 
into  a  fight  with  alacrity,  but  comes  out  of  it  grumbling 
even  when  victorious;  and  though  no  one  fights  with  more 
obstinacy  to  carry  a  contested  point,  yet,  when  the  battle  is 
over,  and  he  comes  to  the  reconciliation,  he  is  so  much 
taken  up  with  the  mere  shaking  of  hands,  that  he  is  apt  to 
let  his  antagonist  pocket  all  that  they  have  been  quarreling 
about.  It  is  not,  therefore,  fighting  that  he  ought  so  much 
to  be  on  his  guard  against,  as  making  friends.  It  is  difficult 
to  cudgel  him  out  of  a  farthing ;  but  put  him  in  a  good 
humor,  and  you  may  bargain  him  out  of  all  the  money  in 
his  pocket.  He  is  like  a  stout  ship,  which  will  weather  the 
roughest  storm  uninjured,  but  roll  its  masts  overboard  in 
the  succeeding  calm. 

He  is  a  little  fond  of  playing  the  magnifico  abroad ;  of 
pulling  out  a  long  purse ;  flinging  his  money  bravely  about 
at  boxing  matches,  horse  races,  cock  fights,  and  carrying  a 
high  head  among  "  gentlemen  of  the  fancy :"  but  imme 
diately  after  one  of  these  fits  of  extravagance,  he  will  be 


JOHN  BULL  25 

taken  with  violent  qualms  of  economy ;  stop  short  at  the 
most  trivial  expenditure;  talk  desperately  of  being  ruined 
and  brought  upon  the  parish;  and,  in  such  moods,  will  not 
pay  the  smallest  tradesman's  bill,  without  violent  alterca 
tion.  He  is  in  fact  the  most  punctual  and  discontented 
paymaster  in  the  world ;  drawing  his  coin  out  of  his  breeches 
pocket  with  infinite  reluctance ;  paying  to  the  uttermost 
farthing,  but  accompanying  every  guinea  with  a  growl. 

With  all  his  talk  of  economy,  however,  he  is  a  bountiful 
provider,  and  a  hospitable  housekeeper.  His  economy  is 
of  a  whimsical  kind,  its  chief  object  being  to  devise  how 
he  may  afford  to  be  extravagant;  for  he  will  begrudge 
himself  a  beefsteak  and  pint  of  port  one  day,  that  he  may 
roast  an  ox  whole,  broach  a  hogshead  of  ale,  and  treat  all 
his  neighbors  on  the  next. 

His  domestic  establishment  is  enormously  expensive :  not 
so  much  from  any  great  outward  parade,  as  from  the  great 
consumption  of  solid  beef  and  pudding;  the  vast  number 
of  followers  he  feeds  and  clothes ;  and  his  singular  disposi 
tion  to  pay  hugely  for  small  services.  He  is  a  most  kind 
and  indulgent  master,  and,  provided  his  servants  humor 
his  peculiarities,  flatter  his  vanity  a  little  now  and  then,  and 
do  not  peculate  grossly  on  him  before  his  face,  they  may 
manage  him  to  perfection.  Everything  that  lives  on  him 
seems  to  thrive  and  grow  fat.  His  house-servants  are  well 
paid,  and  pampered,  and  have  little  to  do.  His  horses  are 
sleek  and  lazy,  and  prance  slowly  before  his  state  carriage ; 
and  his  house-dogs  sleep  quietly  about  the  door,  and  will 
hardly  bark  at  a  housebreaker. 

His  family  mansion  is  an  old  castellated  manor-house, 
gray  with  age,  and  of  a  most  venerable,  though  weather- 
beaten  appearance.  It  has  been  built  upon  no  regular 
plan,  but  is  a  vast  accumulation  of  parts,  erected  in  va 
rious  tastes  and  ages.  The  center  bears  evident  traces  of 


26  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

Saxon  architecture,  and  is  as  solid  as  ponderous  stone  and 
old  English  oak  can  make  it.  Like  all  the  relics  of  that 
style,  it  is  full  of  obscure  passages,  intricate  mazes,  and 
dusky  chambers;  and  though  these  have  been  partially 
lighted  up  in  modern  days,  yet  there  are  many  places  where 
you  must  still  grope  in  the  dark.  Additions  have  been 
made  to  the  original  edifice  from  time  to  time,  and  great 
alterations  have  taken  place;  towers  and  battlements  have 
been  erected  during  wars  and  tumults :  wings  built  in  time 
of  peace;  and  out-houses,  lodges,  and  offices,  run  up  ac 
cording  to  the  whim  or  convenience  of  different  generations, 
until  it  has  become  one  of  the  most  spacious,  rambling  tene 
ments  imaginable.  An  entire  wing  is  taken  up  with  the 
family  chapel,  a  reverend  pile,  that  must  have  been  exceed 
ingly  sumptuous,  and,  indeed,  in  spite  of  having  been 
altered  and  simplified  at  various  periods,  has  still  a  look  of 
solemn  religious  pomp.  Its  walls  within  are  stored  with  the 
monuments  of  John's  ancestors;  and  it  is  snugly  fitted  up 
with  soft  cushions  and  well-lined  chairs,  where  such  of 
his  family  as  are  inclined  to  church  services,  may  doze 
comfortably  in  the  discharge  of  their  duties. 

To  keep  up  this  chapel  has  cost  John  much  money; 
but  he  is  stanch  in  his  religion,  and  piqued  in  his 
zeal,  from  the  circumstance  that  many  dissenting  chapels 
have  been  erected  in  his  vicinity,  and  several  of  his 
neighbors,  with  whom  he  has  had  quarrels,  are  strong 
papists. 

To  do  the  duties  of  the  chapel  he  maintains,  at  a  large 
expense,  a  pious  and  portly  family  chaplain.  He  is  a  most 
learned  and  decorous  personage,  and  a  truly  well-bred 
Christian,  who  always  backs  the  old  gentleman  in  his  opin 
ions,  winks  discreetly  at  his  little  peccadilloes,  rebukes  the 
children  when  refractory,  and  is  of  great  use  in  exhorting 
the  tenants  to  read  their  Bibles,  say  their  prayers,  and, 


JOHN  BULL  27 

above  all,  to  pay  their  rents  punctually,  and  without 
grumbling. 

The  family  apartments  are  in  a  very  antiquated  taste, 
somewhat  heavy,  and  often  inconvenient,  but  full  of  the 
solemn  magnificence  of  former  times;  fitted  up  with  rich, 
though  faded  tapestry,  unwieldy  furniture,  and  loads  of 
massy  gorgeous  old  plate.  The  vast  fireplaces,  ample 
kitchens,  extensive  cellars,  and  sumptuous  banqueting  halls, 
all  speak  of  the  roaring  hospitality  of  days  of  yore,  of  which 
the  modern  festivity  at  the  manor-house  is  but  a  shadow. 
There  are,  however,  complete  suites  of  rooms  apparently 
deserted  and  time-worn;  and  towers  and  turrets  that  are 
tottering  to  decay ;  so  that  in  high  winds  there  is  danger  of 
their  tumbling  about  the  ears  of  the  household. 

John  has  frequently  been  advised  to  have  the  old  edifice 
thoroughly  overhauled  ;  and  to  have  some  of  the  useless  parts 
pulled  down,  and  the  others  strengthened  with  their  mate 
rials  ;  but  the  old  gentleman  always  grows  testy  on  this  sub 
ject.  He  swears  the  house  is  an  excellent  house — that  it  is 
tight  and  weather  proof,,  and  not  to  be  shaken  by  tempests — 
that  it  has  stood  for  several  hundred  years,  and,  therefore, 
is  not  likely  to  tumble  down  now — that  as  to  its  being  incon 
venient,  his  family  is  accustomed  to  the  inconveniences,  and 
would  not  be  comfortable  without  them — that  as  to  its  un 
wieldy  size  and  irregular  construction,  these  result  from  its 
being  the  growth  of  centuries,  and  being  improved  by  the 
wisdom  of  every  generation — that  an  old  family,  like  his, 
requires  a  large  house  to  dwell  in ;  new,  upstart  families  may 
live  in  modern  cottages  and  snug' boxes;  but  an  old  English 
family  should  inhabit  an  old  English  manor-house.  If  you 
point  out  any  part  of  the  building  as  superfluous,  he  insists 
that  it  is  material  to  the  strength  or  decoration  of  the  rest, 
and  the  harmony  of  the  whole;  and  swears  that  the  parts 


28  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

are  so  built  into  each  other,  that  if  you  pull  down  one,  you 
run  the  risk  of  having  the  whole  about  your  ears. 

The  secret  of  the  matter  is,  that  John  has  a  great  disposi 
tion  to  protect  and  patronize.  He  thinks  it  indispensable  to 
the  dignity  of  an  ancient  and  honorable  family,  to  be  boun 
teous  in  its  appointments,  and  to  be  eaten  up  by  dependents ; 
and  so,  partly  from  pride,  and  partly  from  kind-hearted 
ness,  he  makes  it  a  rule  always  to  give  shelter  and  mainte 
nance  to  his  superannuated  servants. 

The  consequence  is,  that,  like  many  other  venerable 
family  establishments,  his  manor  is  encumbered  by  old  re 
tainers  whom  he  cannot  turn  off,  and  an  old  style  which  he 
cannot  lay  down.  His  mansion  is  like  a  great  hospital  of 
invalids,  and,  with  all  its  magnitude,  is  not  a  whit  too  large 
for  its  inhabitants.  Not  a  nook  or  corner  but  is  of  use  in 
housing  some  useless  personage.  Groups  of  veteran  beef 
eaters,  gouty  pensioners,  and  retired  heroes  of  the  buttery 
and  the  larder,  are  seen  lolling  about  its  walls,  crawling 
over  its  lawns,  dozing  under  its  trees,  or  sunning  them 
selves  upon  the  benches  at  its  doors.  Every  office  and  out 
house  is  garrisoned  by  these  supernumeraries  and  their 
families ;  for  they  are  amazingly  prolific,  and  when  they 
die  off,  are  sure  to  leave  John  a  legacy  of  hungry  mouths 
to  be  provided  for.  A  mattock  cannot  be  struck  against 
the  most  mouldering  tumble-down  tower,  but  out  pops, 
from  some  cranny  or  loop-hole,  the  gray  pate  of  some 
superannuated  hanger-on,  who  has  lived  at  John's  expense 
all  his  life,  and  makes  the  most  grievous  outcry  at  their 
pulling  down  the  roof  from  over  the  head  of  a  worn-out 
servant  of  the  family.  This  is  an  appeal  that  John's  honest 
heart  never  can  withstand ;  so  that  a  man,  who  has  faithfully 
eaten  his  beef  and  pudding  all  his  life,  is  sure  to  be  re 
warded  with  a  pipe  and  tankard  in  his  old  days. 

A  great  part  of  his  park,  also,  is  turned  into  paddocks, 


JOHN  BULL  29 

where  his  broken-down  chargers  are  turned  loose  to  graze 
undisturbed  for  the  remainder  of  their  existence — a  worthy 
example  of  grateful  recollection,  which  if  some  of  his  neigh 
bors  were  to  imitate,  would  not  be  to  their  discredit.  In 
deed,  it  is  one  of  his  great  pleasures  to  point  out  these  old 
steeds  to  his  visitors,  to  dwell  on  their  good  qualities,  extol 
their  past  services,  and  boast,  with  some  little  vainglory, 
of  the  perilous  adventures  and  hardy  exploits  through 
which  they  have  carried  him. 

He  is  given,  however,  to  indulge  his  veneration  for  family 
usages,  and  family  encumbrances,  to  a  whimsical  extent. 
His  manor  is  infested  by  gangs  of  gipsies ;  yet  he  will  not 
suffer  them  to  be  driven  off,  because  they  have  infested  the 
place  time  out  of  mind,  and  been  regular  poachers  upon 
every  generation  of  the  family.  He  will  scarcely  permit  a 
dry  branch  to  be  lopped  from  the  great  trees  that  surround 
the  house,  lest  it  should  molest  the  rooks,  that  have  bred 
there  for  centuries.  Owls  have  taken  possession  of  the 
dovecote;  but  they  are  hereditary  owls,  and  must  not  be 
disturbed.  Swallows  have  nearly  choked  up  every  chimney 
with  their  nests ;  martins  build  in  every  frieze  and  cornice ; 
crows  flutter  about  the  towers,  and  perch  on  every  weather 
cock;  and  old  gray-headed  rats  may  be  seen  in  every 
quarter  of  the  house,  running  in  and  out  of  their  holes  un 
dauntedly  in  broad  daylight.  In  short,  John  has  such  a 
reverence  for  everything  that  has  been  long  in  the  family, 
that  he  will  not  hear  even  of  abuses  being  reformed,  be 
cause  they  are  good  old  family  abuses. 

All  those  whims  and  habits  have  concurred  woefully  to 
drain  the  old  gentleman's  purse;  and  as  he  prides  himself 
on  punctuality  in  money  matters,  and  wishes  to  maintain 
his  credit  in  the  neighborhood,  they  have  caused  him  great 
perplexity  in  meeting  his  engagements.  This,  too,  has  been 
increased  by  the  altercations  and  heart-burnings  which  are 


30  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

continually  taking  place  in  his  family.  His  children  have 
been  brought  up  to  different  callings,  and  are  of  different 
ways  of  thinking;  and  as  they  have  always  been  allowed 
to  speak  their  minds  freely,  they  do  not  fail  to  exercise  the 
privilege  most  clamorously  in  the  present  posture  of  his 
affairs.  Some  stand  up  for  the  honor  of  the  race,  and  are 
clear  that  the  old  establishment  should  be  kept  up  in  all  its 
state,  whatever  may  be  the  cost;  others,  who  are  more 
prudent  and  considerate,  entreat  the  old  gentleman  to  re 
trench  his  expenses,  and  to  put  his  whole  system  of  house 
keeping  on  a  more  moderate  footing.  He  has,  indeed,  at 
times,  seemed  inclined  to  listen  to  their  opinions,  but  their 
wholesome  advice  has  been  completely  defeated  by  the 
obstreperous  conduct  of  one  of  his  sons.  This  is  a  noisy, 
rattle-pated  fellow,  of  rather  low  habits,  who  neglects  his 
business  to  frequent  ale-houses — is  the  orator  of  village 
clubs,  and  a  complete  oracle  among  the  poorest  of  his 
father's  tenants.  No  sooner  does  he  hear  any  of  his 
brothers  mention  reform  or  retrenchment,  than  up  he 
jumps,  takes  the  words  out  of  their  mouths,  and  roars  out 
for  an  overturn.  When  his  tongue  is  once  going  nothing 
can  stop  it.  He  rants  about  the  room;  hectors  the  old  man 
about  his  spendthrift  practices ;  ridicules  his  tastes  and  pur 
suits  ;  insists  that  he  shall  turn  the  old  servants  out  of  doors ; 
give  the  broken-down  horses  to  the  hounds;  send  the  fat 
chaplain  packing,  and  take  a  field-preacher  in  his  place — 
nay,  that  the  whole  family  mansion  shall  be  leveled  with 
the  ground,  and  a  plain  one  of  brick  and  mortar  built  in  its 
place.  He  rails  at  every  social  entertainment  and  family 
festivity,  and  skulks  away  growling  to  the  ale-house  when 
ever  an  equipage  drives  up  to  the  door.  Though  constantly 
complaining  of  the  emptiness  of  his  purse,  yet  he  scruples 
not  to  spend  all  his  pocket-money  in  these  tavern  convoca- 


JOHN  BULL  31 

tions,  and  even  runs  up  scores  for  the  liquor  over  which 
he  preaches  about  his  father's  extravagance. 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  how  little  such  thwarting 
agrees  with  the  old  cavalier's  fiery  temperament.  He  has 
become  so  irritable,  from  repeated  crossings,  that  the  mere 
mention  of  retrenchment  or  reform  is  a  signal  for  a  brawl 
between  him  and  the  tavern  oracle.  As  the  latter  is  too 
sturdy  and  refractory  for  paternal  discipline,  having  grown 
out  of  all  fear  of  the  cudgel,  they  have  frequent  scenes  of 
wordy  warfare,  which  at  times  run  so  high,  that  John  is 
fain  to  call  in  the  aid  of  his  son  Tom,  an  officer  who  has 
served  abroad,  but  is  at  present  living  at  home,  on  half-pay. 
This  last  is  sure  to  stand  by  the  old  gentleman,  right  or 
wrong ;  likes  nothing  so  much  as  a  racketing,  roystering  life ; 
and  is  ready  at  a  wink  or  nod,  to  out  saber,  and  flourish  it 
over  the  orator's  head,  if  he  dares  to  array  himself  against 
paternal  authority. 

These  family  dissensions,  as  usual,  have  got  abroad,  and 
are  rare  food  for  scandal  in  John's  neighborhood.  People 
begin  to  look  wise,  and  shake  their  heads,  whenever  his 
affairs  are  mentioned.  They  all  "  hope  that  matters  are 
not  so  bad  with  him  as  represented;  but  when  a  man's 
own  children  begin  to  rail  at  his  extravagance,  things  must 
be  badly  managed.  They  understand  he  is  mortgaged  over 
head  and  ears,  and  is  continually  dabbling  with  money 
lenders.  He  is  certainly  an  open-handed  old  gentleman,  but 
they  fear  he  has  lived  too  fast ;  indeed,  they  never  knew  any 
good  come  of  this  fondness  for  hunting,  racing,  reveling 
and  prize-fighting.  In  short,  Mr.  Bull's  estate  is  a  very  fine 
one,  and  has  been  in  the  family  a  long  time ;  but,  for  all  that, 
they  have  known  many  finer  estates  come  to  the  hammer.1' 

What  is  worst  of  all,  is  the  effect  which  these  pecuniary 
embarrassments  and  domestic  feuds  have  had  on  the  poor 
man  himself.  Instead  of  that  jolly  round  corporation,  and 


32  AMERICAN  ASSAYS 

smug  rosy  face,  which  he  used  to  present,  he  has  of  late 
become  as  shriveled  and  shrunk  as  a  frost-bitten  apple. 
His  scarlet  gold-laced  waistcoat,  which  bellied  out  so  bravely 
in  those  prosperous  days  when  he  sailed  before  the  wind, 
now  hangs  loosely  about  him  like  a  mainsail  in  a  calm. 
His  leather  breeches  are  all  in  folds  and  wrinkles,  and  ap 
parently  have  much  ado  to  hold  up  the  boots  that  yawn 
on  both  sides  of  his  once  sturdy  legs. 

Instead  of  strutting  about  as  formerly,  with  his  three- 
cornered  hat  on  one  side ;  flourishing  his  cudgel,  arid  bring 
ing  it  down  every  moment  with  a  hearty  thump  upon  the 
ground;  looking  everyone  sturdily  in  the  face,  and  trolling 
out  a  stave  of  a  catch  or  a  drinking  song;  he  now  goes 
about  whistling  thoughtfully  to  himself,  with  his  head 
drooping  down,  his  cudgel  tucked  under  his  arm,  and  his 
hands  thrust  to  the  bottom  of  his  breeches  pockets,  which 
are  evidently  empty. 

Such  is  the  plight  of  honest  John  Bull  at  present ;  yet  for 
all  this  the  old  fellow's  spirit  is  as  tall  and  as  gallant  as 
ever.  If  you  drop  the  least  expression  of  sympathy  or  con 
cern,  he  takes  fire  in  an  instant ;  swears  that  he  is  the  rich 
est  and  stoutest  fellow  in  the  country;  talks  of  laying  out 
large  sums  to  adorn  his  house  or  buy  another  estate;  and 
with  a  valiant  swagger  and  grasping  of  his  cudgel,  longs 
exceedingly  to  have  another  bout  at  quarter-staff. 

Though  there  may  be  something  rather  whimsical  in  all 
this,  yet  I  confess  I  cannot  look  upon  John's  situation  with 
out  strong  feelings  of  interest.  With  all  his  odd  humors  and 
obstinate  prejudices,  he  is  a  sterling-hearted  old  blade.  He 
may  not  be  so  wonderfully  fine  a  fellow  as  he  thinks  himself, 
but  he  is  at  least  twice  as  good  as  his  neighbors  represent 
him.  His  virtues  are  all  his  own ;  all  plain,  homebred,  and 
unaffected.  His  very  faults  smack  of  the  raciness  of  his  good 
qualities.  His  extravagance  savors  of  his  generosity;  his 


JOHN  BULL  33 

quarrelsomeness  of  his  courage;  his  credulity  of  his  open 
faith;  his  vanity  of  his  pride;  and  his  bluntness  of  his 
sincerity.  They  are  all  the  redundancies  of  a  rich  and  lib 
eral  character.  He  is  like  his  own  oak,  rough  without, 
but  sound  and  solid  within;  whose  bark  abounds  with  ex 
crescences  in  proportion  to  the  growth  and  grandeur  of 
the  timber;  and  whose  branches  make  a  fearful  groaning 
and  murmuring  in  the  least  storm,  from  their  very  magni 
tude  and  luxuriance.  There  is  something,  too,  in  the  ap 
pearance  of  his  old  family  mansion  that  is  extremely 
poetical  and  picturesque ;  and,  as  long  as  it  can  be  rendered 
comfortably  habitable,  I  should  almost  tremble  to  see  it 
meddled  with,  during  the  present  conflict  of  tastes  and 
opinions.  Some  of  his  advisers  are  no  doubt  good  archi 
tects,  that  might  be  of  service;  but  many,  I  fear,  are  mere 
levelers,  who,  when  they  had  once  got  to  work  with  their 
mattocks  on  this  venerable  edifice,  would  never  stop  until 
they  had  brought  it  to  the  ground,  and  perhaps  buried 
themselves  among  the  ruins.  All  that  I  wish  is,  that  John's 
present  troubles  may  teach  him  more  prudence  in  future. 
That  he  may  cease  to  distress  his  mind  about  other  peo 
ple's  affairs ;  that  he  may  give  up  the  fruitless  attempt  to 
promote  the  good  of  his  neighbors,  and  the  peace  and 
happiness  of  the  world,  by  dint  of  the  cudgel ;  that  he  may 
remain  quietly  at  home ;  gradually  get  his  house  into  re 
pair;  cultivate  his  rich  estate  according  to  his  fancy;  hus 
band  his  income — if  he  thinks  proper;  bring  his  unruly 
children  into  order — if  he  can;  renew  the  jovial  scenes  of 
ancient  prosperity;  and  long  enjoy,  on  his  paternal  lands,  a 
green,  an  honorable,  and  a  merry  old  age. 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE 

A  COLLOQUY  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

WASHINGTON  IRVING 

"  I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays, 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought, 
In  time's  great  period  shall  return  to  nought. 

I  know  that  all  the  muse's  heavenly  lays, 
With  toil  of  sprite  which  are  so  dearly  bought, 
As  idle  sounds,  of  few  or  none  are  sought, 

That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  mere  praise." 

— DRUM  MONO  OF  HAWTHORNDEN. 

THERE  are  certain  half-dreaming  moods  of  mind,  in  which 
we  naturally  steal  away  from  noise  and  glare,  and  seek 
some  quiet  haunt,  where  we  may  indulge  our  reveries  and 
build  our  air  castles  undisturbed.  In  such  a  mood  I  was 
loitering  about  the  old  gray  cloisters  of  Westminster  Abbey, 
enjoying  that  luxury  of  wandering  thought  which  one  is 
apt  to  dignify  with  the  name  of  reflection;  when  suddenly 
an  interruption  of  madcap  boys  from  Westminster  School, 
playing  at  football,  broke  in  upon  the  monastic  stillness  of 
the  place,  making  the  vaulted  passages  and  mouldering 
tombs  echo  with  their  merriment.  I  sought  to  take  refuge 
from  their  noise  by  penetrating  still  deeper  into  the  soli 
tudes  of  the  pile,  and  applied  to  one  of  the  vergers  for  ad 
mission  to  the  library.  He  conducted  me  through  a  portal 
rich  with  the  crumbling  sculpture  of  former  ages,  which 
opened  upon  a  gloomy  passage  leading  to  the  chapter 
house  and  the  chamber  in  which  doomsday  book  is  de 
posited.  Just  within  the  passage  is  a  small  door  on  the  left. 

34 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE  35 

To  this  the  verger  applied  a  key ;  it  was  double  locked,  and 
opened  with  some  difficulty,  as  if  seldom  used.  We  now 
ascended  a  dark  narrow  staircase,  and,  passing  through  a 
second  door,  entered  the  library. 

I  found  myself  in  a  lofty  antique  hall,  the  roof  supported 
by  massive  joists  of  old  English  oak.  It  was  soberly 
lighted  by  a  row  of  Gothic  windows  at  a  considerable  height 
from  the  floor,  and  which  apparently  opened  upon  the  roofs 
of  the  cloisters.  An  ancient  picture  of  some  reverend 
dignitary  of  the  church  in  his  robes  hung  over  the  fireplace. 
Around  the  hall  and  in  a  small  gallery  were  the  books, 
arranged  in  carved  oaken  cases.  They  consisted  principally 
of  old  polemical  writers,  and  were  much  more  worn  by 
time  than  use.  In  the  center  of  the  library  was  a  solitary 
table  with  two  or  three  books  on  it,  an  inkstand  without 
ink,  and  a  few  pens  parched  by  long  disuse.  The  place 
seemed  fitted  for  quiet  study  and  profound  meditation.  It 
was  buried  deep  among  the  massive  walls  of  the  abbey, 
and  shut  up  from  the  tumult  of  the  world.  I  could  only 
hear  now  and  then  the  shouts  of  the  school-boys  faintly 
swelling  from  the  cloisters,  and  the  sound  of  a  bell  tolling 
for  prayers,  echoing  soberly  along  the  roofs  of  the  abbey. 
By  degrees  the  shouts  of  merriment  grew  fainter  and 
fainter,  and  at  length  died  away;  the  bell  ceased  to 
toll,  and  a  profound  silence  reigned  through  the  dusky 
hall. 

I  had  taken  down  a  little  thick  quarto,  curiously  bound  in 
parchment,  with  brass  clasps,  and  seated  myself  at  the  table 
in  a  venerable  elbow-chair.  Instead  of  reading,  however,  I 
was  beguiled  by  the  solemn  monastic  air,  and  lifeless  quiet 
of  the  place,  into  a  train  of  musing.  As  I  looked  around 
upon  the  old  volumes  in  their  mouldering  covers,  thus 
ranged  on  the  shelves,  and  apparently  never  disturbed  in 
their  repose,  I  could  not  but  consider  the  library  a  kind  of 


36  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

literary  catacomb,  where  authors,  like  mummies,  are  piously 
entombed,  and  left  to  blacken  and  moulder  in  dusty  ob 
livion. 

How  much,  thought  I,  has  each  of  these  volumes,  now 
thrust  aside  with  such  indifference,  cost  some  aching  head ! 
how  many  weary  days !  how  many  sleepless  nights !  How 
have  their  authors  buried  themselves  in  the  solitude  of  cells 
and  cloisters;  shut  themselves  up  from  the  face  of  man, 
and  the  still  more  blessed  face  of  nature;  and  devoted 
themselves  to  painful  research  and  intense  reflection !  And 
all  for  what?  to  occupy  an  inch  of  dusty  shelf — to  have  the 
title  of  their  works  read  now  and  then  in  a  future  age,  by 
some  drowsy  churchman  or  casual  straggler  like  myself; 
and  in  another  age  to  be  lost,  even  to  remembrance.  Such 
is  the  amount  of  this  boasted  immortality.  A  mere  tem 
porary  rumor,  a  local  sound;  like  the  tone  of  that  bell 
which  has  just  tolled  among  these  towers,  filling  the  ear 
for  a  moment — lingering  transiently  in  echo — and  then  pass 
ing  away  like  a  thing  that  was  not. 

While  I  sat  half  murmuring,  half  meditating  these  un 
profitable  speculations  with  my  head  resting  on  my  hand,  I 
was  thrumming  with  the  other  hand  upon  the  quarto,  until 
I  accidentally  loosened  the  clasps ;  when,  to  my  utter  aston 
ishment,  the  little  book  gave  two  or  three  yawns,  like  one 
awaking  from  a  deep  sleep ;  then  a  husky  hem ;  and  at 
length  began  to  talk.  At  first  its  voice  was  very  hoarse 
and  broken,  being  much  troubled  by  a  cobweb  which  some 
studious  spider  had  woven  across  it;  and  having  probably 
contracted  a  cold  from  long  exposure  to  the  chills  and  damps 
of  the  abbey.  In  a  short  time,  however,  it  became  more 
distinct,  and  I  soon  found  it  an  exceedingly  fluent  con 
versable  little  tome.  Its  language,  to  be  sure,  was  rather 
quaint  and  obsolete,  and  its  pronunciation,  what,  in  the 
present  day,  would  be  deemed  barbarous;  but  I  shall  en- 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE  37 

deavor,  as  far  as  I  am  able,  to  render  it  in  modern  par 
lance. 

It  began  with  railings  about  the  neglect  of  the  world — 
about  merit  being  suffered  to  languish  in  obscurity,  and 
other  such  commonplace  topics  of  literary  repining,  and 
complained  bitterly  that  it  had  not  been  opened  for  more 
than  two  centuries;  that  the  dean  only  looked  now  and 
then  into  the  library,  sometimes  took  down  a  volume  or 
two,  trifled  with  them  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  re 
turned  them  to  their  shelves.  "  What  a  plague  do  they 
mean,"  said  the  little  quarto,  which  I  began  to  perceive 
was  somewhat  choleric,  "  what  a  plague  do  they  mean  by 
keeping  several  thousand  volumes  of  us  shut  up  here,  and 
watched  by  a  set  of  old  vergers,  like  so  many  beauties  in  a 
harem,  merely  to  be  looked  at  now  and  then  by  the  dean? 
Books  were  written  to  give  pleasure  and  to  be  enjoyed; 
and  I  would  have  a  rule  passed  that  the  dean  should  pay 
each  of  us  a  visit  at  least  once  a  year;  or  if  he  is  not  equal 
to  the  task,  let  them  once  in  a  while  turn  loose  the  whole 
school  of  Westminster  among  us,  that  at  any  rate  we  may 
now  and  then  have  an  airing." 

"  Softly,  my  worthy  friend,"  replied  I,  "  you  are  not 
aware  how  much  better  you  are  off  than  most  books  of 
your  generation.  By  being  stored  away  in  this  ancient 
library,  you  are  like  the  treasured  remains  of  those  saints 
and  monarchs,  which  lie  enshrined  in  the  adjoining  chapels; 
while  the  remains  of  your  contemporary  mortals,  left  to  the 
ordinary  course  of  nature,  have  long  since  returned  to  dust." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  little  tome,  ruffling  his  leaves  and  looking 
big,  "  I  was  written  for  all  the  world,  not  for  the  book 
worms  of  an  abbey.  I  was  intended  to  circulate  from  hand 
I  to  hand,  like  other  great  contemporary  works;  but  here 
have  I  been  clasped  up  for  more  than  two  centuries,  and 
might  have  silently  fallen  a  prey  to  these  worms  that  are 


38  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

playing  the  very  vengeance  with  my  intestines,  if  you  had 
not  by  chance  given  me  an  opportunity  of  uttering  a  few 
last  words  before  I  go  to  pieces." 

"  My  good  friend,"  rejoined  I,  "  had  you  been  left  to  the 
circulation  of  which  you  speak,  you  would  long  ere  this 
have  been  no  more.  To  judge  from  your  physiognomy, 
you  are  now  well  stricken  in  years :  very  few  of  your  con 
temporaries  can  be  at  present  in  existence ;  and  those  few 
owe  their  longevity  to  being  immured  like  yourself  in  old 
libraries;  which,  suffer  me  to  add,  instead  of  likening  to 
harems,  you  might  more  properly  and  gratefully  have  com 
pared  to  those  infirmaries  attached  to  religious  establish 
ments,  for  the  benefit  of  the  old  and  decrepit,  and  where,  by 
quiet  fostering  and  no  employment,  they  often  endure  to 
an  amazingly  good-for-nothing  old  age.  You  talk  of  your 
contemporaries  as  if  in  circulation — where  do  we  meet 
with  their  works  ?  what  do  we  hear  of  Robert  Groteste,  of 
Lincoln?  No  one  could  have  toiled  harder  than  he  for 
immortality.  He  is  said  to  have  written  nearly  two  hundred 
volumes.  He  built,  as  it  were,  a  pyramid  of  books  to  per 
petuate  his  name :  but,  alas !  the  pyramid  has  long  since 
fallen,  and  only  a  few  fragments  are  scattered  in  various 
libraries,  where  they  are  scarcely  disturbed  even  by  the 
antiquarian.  What  do  we  hear  of  Giraldus  Cambrensis,  the 
historian,  antiquary,  philosopher,  theologian,  and  poet?  He 
declined  two  bishoprics,  that  he  might  shut  himself  up  and 
write  for  posterity;  but  posterity  never  inquires  after  his 
labors.  What  of  Henry  of  Huntingdon,  who,  besides  a 
learned  history  of  England,  wrote  a  treatise  on  the  con 
tempt  of  the  world,  which  the  world  has  revenged  by  for 
getting  him?  What  is  quoted  of  Joseph  of  Exeter,  styled 
the  miracle  of  his  age  in  classical  composition?  Of  his 
three  great  heroic  poems  one  is  lost  forever,  excepting  a 
mere  fragment;  the  others  are  known  only  to  a  few  of  the 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE  39 

curious  in  literature ;  and  as  to  his  love  verses  and  epigrams, 
they  have  entirely  disappeared.  What  is  in  current  use  of 
John  Wallis,  the  Franciscan,  who  acquired  the  name  of  the 
tree  of  life?  Of  William  of  Malmsbury ; — of  Simeon  of 
Durham; — of  Benedict  of  Peterborough; — of  John  Hanvill 
of  St.  Albans ;— of " 

"  Prithee,  friend,"  cried  the  quarto,  in  a  testy  tone,  "  how 
old  do  you  think  me?  You  are  talking  of  authors  that 
lived  long  before  my  time,  and  wrote  either  in  Latin  or 
French,  so  that  they  in  a  manner  expatriated  themselves, 
and  deserved  to  be  forgotten ; 1  but  I,  sir,  was  ushered  into 
the  world  from  the  press  of  the  renowned  Wynkyn  de 
Worde.  I  was  written  in  my  own  native  tongue,  at  a  time 
when  the  language  had  become  fixed ;  and  indeed  I  was 
considered  a  model  of  pure  and  elegant  English." 

(I  should  observe  that  these  remarks  were  couched  in 
such  intolerably  antiquated  terms,  that  I  have  had  infinite 
difficulty  in  rendering  them  into  modern  phraseology.) 

"I  cry  your  mercy,"  said  I,  "for  mistaking  your  age; 
but  it  matters  little :  almost  all  the  writers  of  your  time 
have  likewise  passed  into  forgetfulness ;  and  De  Worde's 
publications  are  mere  literary  rarities  among  book-collect 
ors.  The  purity  and  stability  of  language,  too,  on  which 
you  found  your  claims  to  perpetuity,  have  been  the 
fallacious  dependence  of  authors  of  every  age,  even  back  to 
the  times  of  the  worthy  Robert  of  Gloucester,  who  wrote 
his  history  in  rhymes  of  mongrel  Saxon.2  Even  now  many 

"  In  Latin  and  French  hath  many  soueraine  wittes  had  great 
delyte  to  endite,  and  have  many  noble  thinges  fulfilde,  but  certes 
there  ben  some  that  speaken  their  poisye  in  French,  of  which 
speche  the  Frenchmen  have  as  good  a  fantasye  as  we  have  in 
hearying  of  Frenchmen's  Englishe." — Chaucer's  Testament  of  Love. 

"  Holinshed,  in  his  Chronicle,  observes,  '  afterwards,  also,  by 
deligent  travell  of  Geffry  Chaucer  and  of  John  Gowre,  in  the  time 
of  Richard  the  Second,  and  after  them  of  John  Scogan  and  John 
Lydgate,  monke  of  Berrie,  our  said  toong  was  brought  to  an 


40  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

talk  of  Spenser's  '  well  of  pure  English  undefiled,'  as  if  the 
language  ever  sprang  from  a  well  or  fountain-head,  and 
was  not  rather  a  mere  confluence  of  various  tongues,  per 
petually  subject  to  changes  and  intermixtures.  It  is  -this 
which  has  made  English  literature  so  extremely  mutable, 
and  the  reputation  built  upon  it  so  fleeting.  Unless  thought 
can  be  committed  to  something  more  permanent  and  un 
changeable  than  such  a  medium,  even  thought  must  share 
the  fate  of  everything  else,  and  fall  into  decay.  This  should 
serve  as  a  check  upon  the  vanity  and  exultation  of  the  most 
popular  writer.  He  finds  the  language  in  which  he  has 
embarked  his  fame  gradually  altering,  and  subject  to  the 
dilapidations  of  time  and  the  caprice  of  fashion.  He  looks 
back  and  beholds  the  early  authors  of  his  country,  once  the 
favorites  of  their  day,  supplanted  by  modern  writers.  A 
few  short  ages  have  covered  them  with  obscurity,  and  their 
merits  can  only  be  relished  by  the  quaint  taste  of  the  book 
worm.  And  such,  he  anticipates,  will  be  the  fate  of  his 
own  work,  which,  however  it  may  be  admired  in  its  day, 
and  held  up  as  a  model  of  purity,  will  in  the  course  of  years 
grow  antiquated  and  obsolete ;  until  it  shall  become  almost 
as  unintelligible  in  its  native  land  as  an  Egyptian  obelisk, 
or  one  of  those  Runic  inscriptions  said  to  exist  in  the  deserts 
of  Tartary.  I  declare,"  added  I,  with  some  emotion, 
"  when  I  contemplate  a  modern  library,  filled  with  new 
works,  in  all  the  bravery  of  rich  gilding  and  binding,  I  feel 
disposed  to  sit  down  and  weep ;  like  the  good  Xerxes,  when 
he  surveyed  his  army,  pranked  out  in  all  the  splendor  of 
military  array,  and  reflected  that  in  one  hundred  years 
not  one  of  them  would  be  in  existence !  " 

excellent  passe,  notwithstanding  that  it  never  came  unto  the  type 
of  perfection  until  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  wherein  John 
Jewell,  Bishop  of  Sarum,  John  Fox,  and  sundrie  learned  and 
excellent  writers,  have  fully  accomplished  the  ornature  of  the 
same,  to  their  great  praise  and  immortal  commendation.'  " 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE  41 

"  Ah,"  said  the  little  quarto,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "  I  see 
how  it  is;  these  modern  scribblers  have  superseded  all  the 
good  old  authors.  I  suppose  nothing  is  read  now-a-days 
but  Sir  Philip  Sydney's  Arcadia,  Sackville's  stately  plays, 
and  Mirror  for  Magistrates,  or  the  fine-spun  euphuisms  of 
the  '  unparalleled  John  Lyly/  >: 

"  There  you  are  again  mistaken,"  said  I ;  "  the  writers 
whom  you  suppose  in  vogue,  because  they  happened  to  be 
so  when  you  were  last  in  circulation,  have  long  since  had 
their  day.  Sir  Philip  Sydney's  Arcadia,  the  immortality  of 
which  was  so  fondly  predicted  by  his  admirers/  and  which, 
in  truth,  is  full  of  noble  thoughts,  delicate  images,  and 
graceful  turns  of  language,  is  now  scarcely  ever  mentioned. 
Sackville  has  strutted  into  obscurity ;  and  even  Lyly, 
though  his  writings  were  once  the  delight  of  a  court,  and 
apparently  perpetuated  by  a  proverb,  is  now  scarcely  known 
even  by  name.  A  whole  crowd  of  authors  who  wrote  and 
wrangled  at  the  time,  have  likewise  gone  down,  with  all 
their  writings  and  their  controversies.  Wave  after  wave 
of  succeeding  literature  has  rolled  over  them,  until  they 
are  buried  so  deep,  that  it  is  only  now  and  then  that  some 
industrious  diver  after  fragments  of  antiquity  brings  up  a 
specimen  for  the  gratification  of  the  curious. 

"  For  my  part,"  I  continued,  "  I  consider  this  mutability 
of  language  a  wise  precaution  of  Providence  for  the  benefit 
of  the  world  at  large,  and  of  authors  in  particular.  To 
reason  from  analogy,  we  daily  behold  the  varied  and  beau- 


1  "  Live  ever  sweete  booke ;  the  simple  image  of  his  gentle  witt, 
and  the  golden-pillar  of  his  noble  courage ;  and  ever  notify  unto 
the  world  that  thy  writer  was  the  secretary  of  eloquence,  the 
breath  of  the  muses,  the  honey-bee  of  the  daintyest  flowers  of  witt 
and  arte,  the  pith  of  morale  and  intellectual  virtues,  the  arme  of 
Bellona  in  the  field,  the  tonge  of  Suada  in  the  chamber,  the  sprite 
of  Practise  in  esse,  and  the  paragon  of  excellency  in  print." — 
Harvey,  Pierce's  Supererogation. 


42  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

tiful  tribes  of  vegetables  springing  up,  flourishing,  adorning 
the  fields  for  a  short  time,  and  then  fading  into  dust,  to 
make  way  for  their  successors.  Were  not  this  the  case, 
the  fecundity  of  nature  would  be  a  grievance  instead  of  a 
blessing.  The  earth  would  groan  with  rank  and  excessive 
vegetation,  and  its  surface  become  a  tangled  wilderness.  In 
like  manner  the  works  of  genius  and  learning  decline,  and 
make  way  for  subsequent  productions.  Language  gradually 
varies,  and  with  it  fade  away  the  writings  of  authors  who 
have  flourished  their  allotted  time;  otherwise,  the  creative 
powers  of  genius  would  overstock  the  world,  and  the  mind 
would  be  completely  bewildered  in  the  endless  mazes  of 
literature.  Formerly  there  were  some  restraints  on  this 
excessive  multiplication.  Works  had  to  be  transcribed  by 
hand,  which  was  a  slow  and  laborious  operation ;  they  were 
written  either  on  parchment,  which  was  expensive,  so  that 
one  work  was  often  erased  to  make  way  for  another;  or  on 
papyrus,  which  was  fragile  and  extremely  perishable.  Au 
thorship  was  a  limited  and  unprofitable  craft,  pursued  chiefly 
by  monks  in  the  leisure  and  solitude  of  their  cloisters.  The 
accumulation  of  manuscripts  was  slow  and  costly,  and  con 
fined  almost  entirely  to  monasteries.  To  these  circum 
stances  it  may,  in  some  measure,  be  owing  that  we  have 
not  been  inundated  by  the  intellect  of  antiquity ;  that  the 
fountains  of  thought  have  not  been  broken  up,  and  modern 
genius  drowned  in  the  deluge.  But  the  inventions  of  paper 
and  the  press  have  put  an  end  to  all  these  restraints.  They 
have  made  everyone  a  writer,  and  enabled  every  mind  to 
pour  itself  into  print,  and  diffuse  itself  over  the  whole 
intellectual  world.  The  consequences  are  alarming.  The 
stream  of -literature  has  swollen  into  a  torrent — augmented 
into  a  river — expanded  into  a  sea.  A  few  centuries  since, 
five  or  six  hundred  manuscripts  constituted  a  great  library; 
but  what  would  you  say  to  libraries  such  as  actually  exist, 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE  43 

containing  three  or  four  hundred  thousand  volumes ;  legions 
of  authors  at  the  same  time  busy ;  and  the  press  going  on 
with  fearfully  increasing  activity,  to  double  and  quadruple 
the  number?  Unless  some  unforeseen  mortality  should 
break  out  among  the  progeny  of  the  muse,  now  that  she  has 
become  so  prolific,  I  tremble  for  posterity.  I  fear  the  mere 
fluctuation  of  language  will  not  be  sufficient.  Criticism  may 
do  much.  It  increases  with  the  increase  of  literature,  and 
resembles  one  of  those  salutary  checks  on  population  spoken 
of  by  economists.  All  possible  encouragement,  therefore, 
should  be  given  to  the  growth  of  critics,  good  or  bad.  But 
I  fear  all  will  be  in  vain;  let  criticism  do  what  it  may, 
writers  will  write,  printers  will  print,  and  the  world  will 
inevitably  be  overstocked  with  good  books.  It  will  soon 
be  the  employment  of  a  lifetime  merely  to  learn  their  names. 
Many  a  man  of  passable  information,  at  the  present  day, 
reads  scarcely  anything  but  reviews;  and  before  long  a 
man  of  erudition  will  be  little  better  than  a  mere  walking 
catalogue." 

"  My  very  good  sir,"  said  the  little  quarto,  yawning  most 
drearily  in  my  face,  "  excuse  my  interrupting  you,  but  I 
perceive  you  are  rather  given  to  prose.  I  would  ask  the 
fate  of  an  author  who  was  making  some  noise  just  as  I  left 
the  world.  His  reputation,  however,  was  considered  quite 
temporary.  The  learned  shook  their  heads  at  him,  for  he 
was  a  poor  half-educated  varlet,  that  knew  little  of  Latin, 
and  nothing  of  Greek,  and  had  been  obliged  to  run  the 
country  for  deer-stealing.  I  think  his  name  was  Shak- 
speare.  I  presume  he  soon  sunk  into  oblivion." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  I,  "  it  is  owing  to  that  very  man 
that  the  literature  of  his  period  has  experienced  a  duration 
beyond  the  ordinary  term  of  English  literature.  There  rise 
authors  now  and  then,  who  seem  proof  against  the  mutabil 
ity  of  language,  because  they  have  rooted  themselves  in  the 


44  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

unchanging  principles  of  human  nature.  They  are  like 
gigantic  trees  that  we  sometimes  see  on  the  banks  of  a 
stream;  which,  by  their  vast  and  deep  roots,  penetrating 
through  the  mere  surface,  and  laying  hold  on  the  very 
foundations  of  the  earth,  preserve  the  soil  around  them 
from  being  swept  away  by  the  ever-flowing  current,  and 
hold  up  many  a  neighboring  plant,  and  perhaps  worthless 
weed,  to  perpetuity.  Such  is  the  case  with  Shakspeare, 
whom  we  behold  defying  the  encroachments  of  time,  re 
taining  in  modern  use  the  language  and  literature  of  his 
day,  and  giving  duration  to  many  an  indifferent  author, 
merely  from  having  flourished  in  his  vicinity.  But  even  he, 
I  grieve  to  say,  is  gradually  assuming  the  tint  of  age,  and 
his  whole  form  is  overrun  by  a  profusion  of  commentators, 
who,  like  clambering  vines  and  creepers,  almost  bury  the 
noble  plant  that  upholds  them." 

Here  the  little  quarto  began  to  heave  his  sides  and 
chuckle,  until  at  length  he  broke  out  in  a  plethoric  fit  of 
laughter  that  had  well  nigh  choked  him,  by  reason  of  his 
excessive  corpulency.  "  Mighty  well !  "  cried  he,  as  soon  as 
he  could  recover  breath,  "  mighty  well !  and  so  you  would 
persuade  me  that  the  literature  of  an  age  is  to  be  perpetuated 
by  a  vagabond  deer-stealer !  by  a  man  without  learning ;  by 
a  poet,  forsooth — a  poet !  "  And  here  he  wheezed  forth 
another  fit  of  laughter. 

I  confess  that  I  felt  somewhat  nettled  at  this  rudeness, 
which,  however,  I  pardoned  on  account  of  his  having  flour 
ished  in  a  less  polished  age.  I  determined,  nevertheless,  not 
to  give  up  my  point. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  I,  positively,  "  a  poet ;  for  of  all  writers 
he  has  the  best  chance  for  immortality.  Others  may  write 
from  the  head,  but  he  writes  from  the  heart,  and  the  heart 
will  always  understand  him.  He  is  the  faithful  portrayer  of 
nature,  whose  features  are  always  the  same  and  always 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE  45 

interesting.  Prose  writers  are  voluminous  and  unwieldy ; 
their  pages  are  crowded  with  commonplaces,  and  their 
thoughts  expanded  into  tediousness.  But  with  the  true  poet 
everything  is  terse,  touching,  or  brilliant.  He  gives  the 
choicest  thoughts  in  the  choicest  language.  He  illustrates 
them  by  everything  that  he  sees  most  striking  in  nature  and 
art.  He  enriches  them  by  pictures  of  human  life,  such  as  it 
is  passing  before  him.  His  writings,  therefore,  contain  the 
spirit,  the  aroma,  if  I  may  use  the  phrase,  of  the  age  in 
which  he  lives.  They  are  caskets  which  inclose  within  a 
small  compass  the  wealth  of  the  language — its  family  jewels, 
which  are  thus  transmitted  in  a  portable  form  to  posterity. 
The  setting  may  occasionally  be  antiquated,  and  require  now 
and  then  to  be  renewed,  as  in  the  case  of  Chaucer ;  but  the 
brilliancy  and  intrinsic  value  of  the  gems  continue  unaltered. 
Cast  a  look  back  over  the  long  reach  of  literary  history. 
What  vast  valleys  of  dullness,  filled  with  monkish  legends 
and  academical  controversies!  what  bogs  of  theological 
speculations !  what  dreary  wastes  of  metaphysics !  Here 
and  there  only  do  we  behold  the  heaven-illuminated  bards, 
elevated  like  beacons  on  their  widely-separate  heights,  to 
transmit  the  pure  light  of  poetical  intelligence  from  age  to 
age."  1 

I  was  just  about  to  launch  forth  into  eulogiums  upon  the 

"  Thorow  earth  and  waters  deepe, 

The  pen  by  skill  doth  passe : 
And  featly  nyps  the  worldes  abuse, 

And  shoes  us  in  a  glasse, 
The  vertu  and  the  vice 

Of  every  wight  alyve  ; 
The  honey  comb  that  bee  doth  make 

Is  not  so  sweet  in  hyve, 
As  are  the  golden  leves 

That  drop  from  poet's  head! 
Which  doth  surmount  our  common  talke 

As  farre  as  dross  doth  lead." 

— Churchyard. 


46  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

poets  of  the  day,  when  the  sudden  opening  of  the  door 
caused  me  to  turn  my  head.  It  was  the  verger,  who  came 
to  inform  me  that  it  was  time  to  close  the  library.  I  sought 
to  have  a  parting  word  with  the  quarto,  but  the  worthy 
little  tome  was  silent ;  the  clasps  were  closed :  and  it  looked 
perfectly  unconscious  of  all  that  had  passed.  I  have  been 
to  the  library  two  or  three  times  since,  and  have  endeavored 
to  draw  it  into  further  conversation,  but  in  vain ;  and 
whether  all  this  rambling  colloquy  actually  took  place,  or 
whether  it  was  another  of  those  odd  day-dreams  to  which 
I  am  subject,  I  have  never  to  this  moment  been  able  to 
discover. 


KEAN'S  ACTING 
RICHARD  HENRY  DANA 

"  For,  doubtless,  that  indeed  according  to  art  is  most  eloquent, 
which  turns  and  approaches  nearest  to  nature,  from  whence  it  came." 

— MILTON. 

"Professed  divers-ions!  cannot  these  escape? 

We  ransack  tombs  for  pastime;  from  the  dust 
Call  up  the  sleeping  hero ;  bid  him  tread 
The  scene  for  our  amusement :  How  like  Gods 
We  sit;  and,  wrapt  in  immortality, 
Shed  generous  tears  on  wretches  born  to  die ; 
Their  fate  deploring,  to  forget  our  own!" 

— YOUNG. 

I  HAD  scarcely  thought  of  the  theater  for  some  years, 
when  Kean  arrived  in  this  country;  and  it  was  more  from 
curiosity  than  from  any  other  motive,  that  I  went  to  see, 
for  the  first  time,  the  great  actor  of  the  age.  I  was  soon 
lost  to  the  recollection  of  being  in  a  theater,  or  looking  upon 
a  great  display  of  the  "  mimic  art."  The  simplicity,  earnest 
ness,  and  sincerity  of  his  acting  made  me  forgetful  of  the 
fiction,  and  bore  me  away  with  the  power  of  reality  and 
truth.  If  this  be  acting,  said  I,  as  I  returned  home,  I  may 
as  well  make  the  theater  my  school,  and  henceforward 
study  nature  at  second  hand. 

^How  can  I  describe  one  who  is  almost  as  full  of  beauties 
as  nature  itself, — who  grows  upon  us  the  more  we  become 
acquainted  with  him,  and  makes  us  sensible  that  the  first 
time  we  saw  him  in  any  part,  however  much  he  may  have 

47 


48  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

moved  us,  we  had  but  a  partial  apprehension  of  the  many 
excellences  of  his  acting?  We  cease  to  consider  it  as  a 
mere  amusement.  It  is  an  intellectual  feast ;  and  he  who 
goes  to  it  with  a  disposition  and  capacity  to  relish  it,  will 
receive  from  it  more  nourishment  for  his  mind,  than  he 
would  be  likely  to  do  in  many  other  ways  in  twice  the  time. 
Our  faculties  are  opened  and  enlivened  by  it;  our  reflec 
tions  and  recollections  are  of  an  elevated  kind;  and  the 
voice  which  is  sounding  in  our  ears,  long  after  we  have 
left  him,  creates  an  inward  harmony  which  is  for  our  good. 

Kean,  in  truth,  stands  very  much  in  that  relation  to  other 
players  whom  we  have  seen,  that  Shakspeare  does  to  other 
dramatists.  One  player  is  called  classical;  another  makes 
fine  points  here,  and  another  there ;  Kean  makes  more  fine 
points  than  all  of  them  together ;  but  in  him  these  are  only 
little  prominences,  showing  their  bright  heads  above  a 
beautifully  undulated  surface.  A  continual  change  is  going 
on  in  him,  partaking  of  the  nature  of  the  varying  scenes 
he  is  passing  through,  and  the  many  thoughts  and  feelings 
which  are  shifting  within  him. 

In  a  clear  autumnal  day  we  may  see,  here  and  there,  a 
massed  white  cloud  edged  with  a  blazing  brightness  against 
a  blue  sky,  and  now  and  then  a  dark  pine  swinging  its  top 
in  the  wind,  with  the  melancholy  sound  of  the  sea ;  but 
who  can  note  the  shifting  and  untiring  play  of  the  leaves 
of  the  wood,  and  their  passing  hues,  when  each  seems  a 
living  thing  full  of  sensations,  and  happy  in  its  rich  attire? 
A  sound,  too,  of  universal  harmony  is  in  our  ears,  and  a 
wide-spread  beauty  before  our  eyes,  which  we  cannot  de 
fine;  yet  a  joy  is  in  our  hearts.  Our  delight  increases  in 
these,  day  after  day,  the  longer  we  give  ourselves  to  them, 
till  at  last  we  become,  as  it  were,  a  part  of  the  existence 
without  us.  So  it  is  with  natural  characters.  They  grow, 
upon  us  imperceptibly,  till  we  become  bound  up  in  them, 


KEAN'S  ACTING  49 

we  scarce  know  when  or  how.  So,  in  its  degree,  it  will  fare 
with  the  actor  who  is  deeply  filled  with  nature,  and  is  per 
petually  throwing  off  her  beautiful  evanescences.  Instead 
of  becoming  tired  of  him,  as  we  do,  after  a  time,  of  others, 
he  will  go  on  giving  something  which  will  be  new  to  the 
observing  mind,  and  will  keep  the  feelings  alive,  because 
their  action  will  be  natural.  I  have  no  doubt,  that,  except 
ing  those  who  go  to  a  play  as  children  look  into  a  show- 
box,  to  admire  and  exclaim  at  distorted  figures,  and  raw, 
unharmonious  colors,  there  is  no  man  of  a  moderately 
warm  temperament,  and  with  a  tolerable  share  of  insight 
into  human  nature,  who  would  not  find  his  interest  in  Kean 
increasing  with  a  study  of  him.  It  is  very  possible  that  the 
excitement  would  lessen,  but  there  would  be  a  quieter 
pleasure,  instead  of  it,  stealing  upon  him,  as  he  became 
familiar  with  the  character  of  the  acting. 

Taken  within  his  range  of  characters,  the  versatility  of 
his  playing  is  striking.  He  seems  not  the  same  being,  now 
representing  Richard,  and,  again,  Hamlet;  but  the  two 
characters  alone  appear  before  you,  and  as  distinct  in 
dividuals  who  had  never  known  or  heard  of  each  other. 
So  does  he  become  the  character  he  is  to  represent,  that 
we  have  sometimes  thought  it  a  reason  why  he  was  not 
universally  better  liked  here,  in  Richard ;  and  that  because 
the  player  did  not  make  himself  a  little  more  visible,  he 
must  needs  bear  a  share  of  our  dislike  of  the  cruel  king. 
And  this  may  be  still  more  the  case,  as  his  construction 
of  the  character,  whether  right  or  wrong,  creates  in  us  an 
unmixed  dislike  of  Richard,  till  the  anguish  of  his  mind 
makes  him  the  object  of  pity;  from  which  time,  to  the 
close,  all  allow  that  he  plays  the  part  better  than  anyone 
has  done  before  him. 

In  his  highest-wrought  passion,  when  the  limbs  and 
muscles  are  alive  and  quivering,  and  his  gestures  hurried 


50  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

and  vehement,  nothing  appears  ranted  or  overacted;  be 
cause  he  makes  us  feel,  that,  with  all  this,  there  is  some 
thing  still  within  him  struggling  for  utterance.  The  very 
breaking  and  harshness  of  his  voice,  in  these  parts,  help 
to  this  impression,  and  make  up,  in  a  good  degree,  for  this 
defect,  if  it  be  a  defect  here. 

Though  he  is  on  the  very  verge  of  truth  in  his  passionate 
parts,  he  does  not  fall  into  extravagance;  but  runs  along 
the  dizzy  edge  of  the  roaring  and  beating  sea,  with  feet 
as  sure  as  we  walk  our  parlors.  We  feel  that  he  is  safe, 
for  some  preternatural  spirit  upholds  him  as  it  hurries  him 
onward;  and  while  all  is  uptorn  and  tossing  in  the  whirl 
of  the  passions,  we  see  that  there  is  a  power  and  order 
over  the  whole. 

A  man  has  feelings  sometimes  which  can  only  be  breathed 
out ;  there  is  no  utterance  for  them  in  words.  I  had  hardly 
written  this  when  the  terrible  "  Ha !  "  with  which  Kean 
makes  Lear  hail  Cornwall  and  Regan  as  they  enter  in  the 
fourth  scene  of  the  second  act,  came  to  my  mind.  That 
cry  seemed  at  the  time  to  take  me  up  and  sweep  me  along 
in  its  wild  swell.  No  description  in  the  world  could  give  a 
tolerably  clear  notion  of  it ; — it  must  be  formed,  as  well  as 
it  may  be,  from  what  is  here  said  of  its  effect. 

Kean's  playing  is  sometimes  but  the  outbreaking  of  in 
articulate  sounds; — the  throttled  struggle  of  rage,  and  the 
choking  of  grief, — the  broken  laugh  of  extreme  suffering, 
when  the  mind  is  ready  to  deliver  itself  over  to  an  insane 
joy, — the  utterance  of  over-full  love,  which  cannot  and 
would  not  speak  in  express  words,  and  that  of  wildering 
grief,  which  blanks  all  the  faculties  of  man. 

No  other  player  whom  I  have  heard  has  attempted  these, 
except  now  and  then;  and  should  anyone  have  made  the 
trial  in  the  various  ways  in  which  Kean  gives  them,  prob 
ably  he  would  have  failed.  Kean  thrills  us  with  them,  as  if 


KEAN'S  ACTING  51 

they  were  wrung  from  him  in  his  agony.  They  have  not 
the  appearance  of  study  or  artifice.  The  truth  is,  that  the 
labor  of  a  mind  of  his  genius  constitutes  its  existence  and 
delight.  It  is  not  like  the  toil  of  ordinary  men  at  their 
task-work.  What  shows  effort  in  them  comes  from  him 
with  the  freedom  and  force  of  nature. 

Some  object  to  the  frequent  use  of  such  sounds,  and  to 
others  they  are  quite  shocking.  But  those  who  permit 
themselves  to  consider  that  there  are  really  violent  passions 
in  man's  nature,  and  that  they  utter  themselves  a  little  dif 
ferently  from  our  ordinary  feelings,  understand  and  feel 
their  language  as  they  speak  to  us  in  Kean.  Probably  no 
actor  has  conceived  passion  with  the  intenseness  and  life 
that  he  does.  It  seems  to  enter  into  him  and  possess  him, 
as  evil  spirits  possessed  men  of  old.  It  is  curious  to  ob 
serve  how  some,  who  have  sat  very  contentedly,  year  after 
year,  and  called  the  face-making,  which  they  have  seen, 
expression,  and  the  stage-stride,  dignity,  and  the  noisy 
declamation,  and  all  the  rhodomontade  of  acting,  energy 
and  passion,  complain  that  Kean  is  apt  to  be  extravagant ; 
when  in  truth  he  seems  to  be  little  more  than  a  simple 
personation  of  the  feeling  or  passion  to  be  expressed  at  the 
time. 

It  has  been  so  common  a  saying,  that  Lear  is  the  most 
difficult  of  characters  to  personate,  that  we  had  taken  it 
for  granted  no  man  could  play  it  so  as  to  satisfy  us.  Per 
haps  it  is  the  hardest  to  represent.  Yet  the  part  which  has 
generally  been  supposed  the  most  difficult,  the  insanity  of 
Lear,  is  scarcely  more  so  than  that  of  the  choleric  old 
king.  Inefficient  rage  is  almost  always  ridiculous;  and 
an  old  man,  with  a  broken-down  body  and  a  mind  falling 
in  pieces  from  the  violence  of  its  uncontrolled  passions,  is  in 
constant  danger  of  exciting,  along  with  our  pity,  a  feeling 
of  contempt.  It  is  a  chance  matter  to  which  we  may  be 


52  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

most  moved.  And  this  it  is  which  makes  the  opening  of 
Lear  so  difficult. 

We  may  as  well  notice  here  the  objection  which  some 
make  to  the  abrupt  violence  with  which  Kean  begins  in 
Lear.  If  this  be  a  fault,  it  is  Shakspeare,  and  not  Kean, 
who  is  to  blame ;  for,  no  doubt,  he  has  conceived  it  accord 
ing  to  his  author.  Perhaps,  however,  the  mistake  lies  in 
this  case,  where  it  does  in  most  others,  with  those  who  put 
themselves  into  the  seat  of  judgment  to  pass  upon  great 
men. 

In  most  instances,  Shakspeare  has  given  us  the  gradual 
growth  of  a  passion,  with  such  little  accompaniments  as 
agree  with  it,  and  go  to  make  up  the  whole  man.  In  Lear, 
his  object  being  to  represent  the  beginning  and  course  of 
insanity,  he  has  properly  enough  gone  but  a  little  back  of  it, 
and  introduced  to  us  an  old  man  of  good  feelings  enough, 
but  one  who  had  lived  without  any  true  principle  of  con 
duct,  and  whose  unruled  passions  had  grown  strong  with 
age,  and  were  ready,  upon  a  disappointment,  to  make  ship 
wreck  of  an  intellect  never  strong.  To  bring  this  about, 
he  begins  with  an  abruptness  rather  unusual ;  and  the  old 
king  rushes  in  before  us,  with  his  passions  at  their  height, 
and  tearing  him  like  fiends. 

Kean  gives  this  as  soon  as  the  fitting  occasion  offers 
itself.  Had  he  put  more  of  melancholy  and  depression  and 
less  of  rage  into  the  character,  we  should  have  been  much 
puzzled  at  his  so  suddenly  going  mad.  It  would  have 
required  the  change  to  have  been  slower;  and  besides,  his 
insanity  must  have  been  of  another  kind.  It  must  have 
been  monotonous  and  complaining,  instead  of  continually 
varying;  at  one  time  full  of  grief,  at  another  playful,  and 
then  wild  as  the  winds  that  roared  about  him,  and  fiery  and 
sharp  as  the  lightning  that  shot  by  him.  The  truth  with 
which  he  conceived  this  was  not  finer  than  his  execution 


KEAN'S  ACTING  53 

of  it.  Not  for  a  moment,  in  his  utmost  violence,  did  he 
suffer  the  imbecility  of  the  old  man's  anger  to  touch  upon 
the  ludicrous,  when  nothing  but  the  justest  conception  and 
feeling  of  the  character  could  have  saved  him  from  it. 

It  has  been  said  that  Lear  is  a  study  for  one  who  would 
make  himself  acquainted  with  the  workings  of  an  insane 
mind.  And  it  is  hardly  less  true,  that  the  acting  of  Kean 
was  an  embodying  of  these  workings.  His  eye,  when  his 
senses  are  first  forsaking  him,  giving  an  inquiring  look  at 
what  he  saw,  as  if  all  before  him  was  undergoing  a  strange 
and  bewildering  change  which  confused  his  brain, — the 
wandering,  lost  motions  of  his  hands,  which  seemed  feeling 
for  something  familiar  to  them,  on  which  they  might  take 
hold  and  be  assured  of  a  safe  reality, — the  under  monotone 
of  his  voice,  as  if  he  was  questioning  his  own  being,  and 
what  surrounded  him, — the  continuous,  but  slight,  oscillat 
ing  motion  of  the  body, — all  these  expressed,  with  fearful 
truth,  the  bewildered  state  of  a  mind  fast  unsettling,  and 
making  vain  and  weak  efforts  to  find  its  way  back  to  its 
wonted  reason.  There  was  a  childish,  feeble  gladness  in 
the  eye,  and  a  half-piteous  smile  about  the  mouth  at  times, 
which  one  could  scarce  look  upon  without  tears.  As  the 
derangement  increased  upon  him,  his  eye  lost  its  notice 
of  objects  about  him,  wandering  over  things  as  if  he  saw 
them  not,  and  fastening  upon  the  creatures  of  his  crazed 
brain.  The  helpless  and  delighted  fondness  with  which 
he  clings  to  Edgar,  as  an  insane  brother,  is  another  in 
stance  of  the  justness  of  Kean's  conceptions.  Nor  does  he 
lose  the  air  of  insanity,  even  in  the  fine  moralizing  parts, 
and  where  he  inveighs  against  the  corruptions  of  the  world. 
There  is  a  madness  even  in  his  reason. 

The  violent  and  immediate  changes  of  the  passions  in 
Lear,  so  difficult  to  manage  without  jarring  upon  us,  are 
given  by  Kean  with  a  spirit  and  with  a  fitness  to  nature 


54  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

which  we  had  hardly  thought  possible.  These  are  equally 
well  done  both  before  and  after  the  loss  of  reason.  The 
most  difficult  scene,  in  this  respect,  is  the  last  interview 
between  Lear  and  his  daughters,  Goneril  and  Regan, — 
(and  how  wonderfully  does  Kean  carry  it  through!) — the 
scene  which  ends  with  the  horrid  shout  and  cry  with  which 
he  runs  out  mad  from  their  presence,  as  if  the  very  brain 
had  taken  fire. 

The  last  scene  which  we  are  allowed  to  have  of  Shak- 
speare's  Lear,  for  the  simply  pathetic,  was  played  by  Kean 
with  unmatched  power.  We  sink  down  helpless  under 
the  oppressive  grief.  It  lies  like  a  dead  weight  upon  our 
hearts.  We  are  denied  even  the  relief  of  tears;  and  are 
thankful  for  the  shudder  that  seizes  us  when  he  kneels  to 
his  daughter  in  the  deploring  weakness  of  his  crazed  grief. 

It  is  lamentable  that  Kean  should  not  be  allowed  to 
show  his  unequaled  powers  in  the  last  scene  of  Lear,  as 
Shakspeare  wrote  it;  and  that  this  mighty  work  of  genius 
should  be  profaned  by  the  miserable,  mawkish  sort  of 
by-play  of  Edgar's  and  Cordelia's  loves.  Nothing  can 
surpass  the  impertinence  of  the  man  who  made  the  change, 
but  the  folly  of  those  who  sanctioned  it. 

When  I  began,  I  had  no  other  intention  than  that  of 
giving  a  few  general  impressions  made  upon  me  by  Kean's 
acting ;  but,  falling  accidentally  upon  his  Lear,  I  have  been 
led,  unawares,  into  particulars.  It  is  only  to  take  these  as, 
some  of  the  instances  of  his  powers  in  Lear,  and  then  to 
think  of  him  as  not  inferior  in  his  other  characters,  and 
some  notion  may  be  formed  of  the  effect  of  Kean's  playing 
upon  those  who  understand  and  like  him.  Neither  this, 
nor  anything  I  might  add,  would  be  likely  to  reach  his 
great  and  various  powers. 

If  it  could  be  said  of  anyone,  it  might  be  said  of  Kean, 


KEAN'S  ACTING  55 

that  he  does  not  fall  behind  his  author,  but  stands  forward, 
the  living  representative  of  the  character  he  has  drawn. 
When  he  is  not  playing  in  Shakspeare,  he  fills  up  where  his 
author  is  wanting;  and  when  in  Shakspeare,  he  gives  not- 
only  what  is  set  down,  but  whatever  the  situation  and  cir 
cumstances  attendant  upon  the  being  he  personates  would 
naturally  call  forth.  He  seems,  at  the  time,  to  have  pos 
sessed  himself  of  Shakspeare's  imagination,  and  to  have 
given  it  body  and  form.  Read  any  scene  in  Shakspeare, — 
for  instance,  the  last  of  Lear  that  is  played, — and  see  how 
few  words  are  there  set  down,  and  then  remember  how 
Kean  fills  out  with  varied  and  multiplied  expression  and 
circumstances,  and  the  truth  of  this  remark  will  be  obvious 
enough.  There  are  few  men,  I  believe,  let  them  have 
studied  the  plays  of  Shakspeare  ever  so  attentively,  who 
can  see  Kean  in  them  without  confessing  that  he  has  helped 
them  to  a  truer  and  fuller  conception  of  the  author,  not 
withstanding  what  their  own  labors  had  done  for  them. 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  in  what  character  Kean  plays  best. 
He  so  fits  himself  to  each  in  turn,  that  if  the  effect  he 
produces  at  one  time  is  less  than  at  another,  it  is  because 
of  some  inferiority  in  stage-effect  in  the  character.  Othello 
is  probably  the  character  best  adapted  to  stage-effect,  and 
Kean  has  an  uninterrupted  power  over  us  in  playing  it. 
When  he  commands,  we  are  awed;  when  his  face  is  sensi 
tive  with  love  and  love  thrills  in  his  soft  tones,  all  that 
our  imaginations  had  pictured  to  us  is  realized.  His  jeal 
ousy,  his  hate,  his  fixed  purposes,  are  terrific  and  deadly; 
and  the  groans  wrung  from  him  in  his  grief  have  the  pathos 
and  anguish  of  Esau's,  when  he  stood  before  his  old,  blind 
father,  and  sent  up  "  an  exceeding  bitter  cry." 

Again,  in  Richard,  how  does  he  hurry  forward  to  his 
object,  sweeping  away  all  between  him  and  it!  The  world 
and  its  affairs  are  nothing  to  him,  till  he  gains  his  end.  He 


56  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

is  all  life,  and  action,  and  haste, — he*  fills  every  part  of  the 
stage,  and  seems  to  do  all  that  is  done. 

I  have  before  said  that  his  voice  is  harsh  and  breaking 
in  his  high  tones,  in  his  rage,  but  that  this  defect  is  of  little 
consequence  in  such  places.  Nor  is  it  well  suited  to  the 
more  declamatory  parts.  This,  again,  is  scarce  worth  con 
sidering;  for  how  very  little  is  there  of  mere  declamation 
in  good  English  plays !  But  it  is  one  of  the  finest  voices  in 
the  world  for  all  the  passions  and  feelings  which  can  be 
uttered  in  the  middle  and  lower  tones.  In  Lear, — 

"  If  you  have  poison  for  me,  I  will  drink  it." 
And  again, — 

"  You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  out  o'  the  grave. 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss." 

Why  should  I  cite  passages  ?  Can  any  man  open  upon  the 
scene  in  which  these  are  contained,  without  Kean's  piteous 
looks  and  tones  being  present  to  him?  And  does  not  the 
mere  remembrance  of  them,  as  he  reads,  bring  tears  into 
his  eyes  ?  Yet,  once  more,  in  Othello, — 

"  Had  it  pleased  Heaven 
To  try  me  with  affliction,"  &c. 

In  the  passage  beginning  with 

"  O,  now  for  ever 
Farewell  the  tranquil  mind," — 

there  was  "  a  mysterious  confluence  of  sounds "  passing 
off  into  infinite  distance,  and  every  thought  and  feeling 
within  him  seemed  traveling  with  them. 

How  graceful  he  is  in  Othello !  It  is  not  a  practiced, 
educated  grace,  but  the  "  unbought  grace  "  of  his  genius, 
uttering  itself  in  its  beauty  and  grandeur  in  the  movements 


KEAN'S  ACTING  57 

of  the  outward  man.  When  he  says  to  lago  so  touchingly, 
"  Leave  me,  leave  me,  lago,"  and,  turning  from  him,  walks 
to  the  back  of  the  stage,  raising  his  hands,  and  bringing 
them  down  upon  his  head,  with  clasped  fingers,  and  stands 
thus  with  his  back  to  us,  there  is  a  grace  and  majesty  in 
his  figure  which  we  look  on  with  admiration. 

Talking  of  these  things  in  Kean  is  something  like  read 
ing  the  Beauties  of  Shakspeare;  for  he  is  as  true  in  the 
subordinate  as  in  the  great  parts.  But  he  must  be  content 
to  share  with  other  men  of  genius,  and  think  himself  for 
tunate  if  one  in  a  hundred  sees  his  lesser  beauties,  and 
marks  the  truth  and  delicacy  of  his  under-playing.  For 
instance,  when  he  has  no  share  in  the  action  going  on,  he  is 
not  busy  in  putting  himself  into  attitudes  to  draw  atten 
tion,  but  stands  or  sits  in  a  simple  posture,  like  one  with 
an  engaged  mind.  His  countenance,  too,  is  in  a  state  of 
ordinary  repose,  with  but  a  slight,  general  expression  of 
the  character  of  his  thoughts ;  for  this  is  all  the  face  shows, 
when  the  mind  is  taken  up  in  silence  with  its  own  reflec 
tions.  It  does  not  assume  marked  or  violent  expressions, 
as  in  soliloquy.  When  a  man  gives  utterance  to  his 
thoughts,  though  alone,  the  charmed  rest  of  the  body  is 
broken ;  he  speaks  in  his  gestures  too,  and  the  countenance 
is  put  into  a  sympathizing  action. 

I  was  first  struck  with  this  in  his  Hamlet ;  for  the  deep 
and  quiet  interest,  so  marked  in  Hamlet,  made  the  justness 
of  Kean's  playing,  in  this  respect,  the  more  obvious.  And 
since  then,  I  have  observed  him  attentively,  and  have  found 
the  same  true  acting  in  his  other  characters. 

This  right  conception  of  situation  and  its  general  effect 
seems  to  require  almost  as  much  genius  as  his  conceptions 
of  his  characters,  and,  indeed,  may  be  considered  as  one 
with  them.  He  deserves  praise  for  it ;  for  there  is  so  much 
of  the  subtilty  of  nature  in  it,  if  one  may  so  speak,  that 


58  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

while  a  few  are  able,  with  his  help,  to  put  themselves  into 
the  situation,  and  perceive  the  justness  of  his  acting  in  it, 
the  rest,  both  those  who  like  him  upon  the  whole,  as  well 
as  those  who  profess  to  see  little  in  him,  will  be  apt  to 
let  it  pass  by  without  observing  it. 

Like  most  men,  however,  Kean  receives  a  partial  re 
ward,  at  least,  for  his  sacrifice  of  the  praise  of  the  many 
to  what  he  feels  to  be  the  truth.  For  when  he  passes  from 
the  state  of  natural  repose,  even  into  that  of  gentle  motion 
and  ordinary  discourse,  he  is  immediately  filled  with  a 
spirit  and  life,  which  he  makes  everyone  feel  who  is  not 
armor-proof  against  him.  This  helps  to  the  sparkling 
brightness  and  warmth  of  his  playing,  the  grand  secret  of 
which,  like  that  of  colors  in  a  picture,  lies  in  a  just  con 
trast.  We  can  all  speculate  concerning  the  general  rules 
upon  this ;  but  when  the  man  of  genius  gives  us  their  re 
sults,  how  few  are  there  who  can  trace  them  out  with  an 
observant  eye,  or  look  with  a  discerning  satisfaction  upon 
the  great  whole.  Perhaps  this  very  beauty  in  Kean  has 
helped  to  an  opinion,  which,  no  doubt,  is  true,  that  he  is, 
at  times,  too  sharp  and  abrupt.  I  well  remember,  while 
once  looking  at  a  picture  in  which  the  shadow  of  a  moun 
tain  fell,  in  strong  outline,  upon  a  part  of  a  stream,  I 
overheard  some  quite  sensible  people  expressing  their 
wonder  that  the  artist  should  have  made  the  water  of  two 
colors,  seeing  it  was  all  one  and  the  same  thing. 

Instances  of  Kean's  keeping  of  situations  were  striking  in 
the  opening  of  the  trial  scene  in  The  Iron  Chest,  and 
in  Hamlet,  when  the  father's  ghost  tells  the  story  of  his 
death. 

The  composure  to  which  he  is  bent  up,  in  the  former, 
must  be  present  with  all  who  saw  him.  And,  though  from 
the  immediate  purpose,  shall  I  pass  by  the  startling  and 
appalling  change,  when  madness  seized  upon  his  brain, 


KEAN'S  ACTING  59 

with  the  swiftness  and  power  of  a  fanged  monster?  Won 
derfully  as  this  last  part  was"  played,  we  cannot  well  imagine 
how  much  the  previous  calm,  and  the  suddenness  of  the 
unlooked-for  change  from  it,  added  to  the  terror  of  the 
scene.  The  temple  stood  fixed  on  its  foundations;  the 
^earthquake  shook  it,  and  it  was  a  heap.  Is  this  one  of 
Kean's  violent  contrasts? 

While  Kean  listened,  in  Hamlet,  to  the  father's  story, 
the  entire  man  was  absorbed  in  deep  attention,  mingled 
with  a  tempered  awe.  His  posture  was  simple,  with  a 
slight  inclination  forward.  The  spirit  was  the  spirit  of 
his  father,  whom  he  had  loved  and  reverenced,  and  who 
was  to  that  moment  ever  present  in  his  thoughts.  The 
first  superstitious  terror  at  meeting  him  had  passed  off. 
The  account  of  his  father's  appearance  given  him  by 
Horatio  and  the  watch,  and  his  having  followed  him  some 
distance,  had,  in  a  degree,  familiarized  him  to  the  sight, 
and  he  stood  before  us  in  the  stillness  of  one  who  was  to 
hear,  then  or  never,  what  was  to  be  told,  but  without  that 
eager  reaching  forward  which  other  players  give,  and  which 
would  be  right,  perhaps,  in  any  character  but  that  of  Ham 
let,  who  connects  the  past  and  what  is  to  come  with  the 
present,  and  mingles  reflection  with  his  immediate  feelings, 
however  deep. 

As  an  instance  of  Kean's  familiar,  and,  if  I  may  be  al 
lowed  to  term,  domestic  acting,  the  first  scene  in  the  fourth 
act  of  his  Sir  Giles  Overreach  may  be  taken.  His  manner 
at  meeting  Lovell  and  through  the  conversation  with  him, 
the  way  in  which  he  turns  his  chair  and  leans  upon  it,  were 
as  easy  and  natural  as  they  could  have  been  in  real  life,  had 
Sir  Giles  been  actually  existing,  and  engaged  at  that  mo 
ment  in  conversation  in  Lovell's  room. 

It  is  in  these  things,  scarcely  less  than  in  the  more 
prominent  parts  of  his  playing,  that  Kean  shows  himself 


60  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

the  great  actor.  He  must  always  make  a  deep  impression; 
but  to  suppose  the  world  at  large  capable  of  a  right  esti 
mate  of  his  different  powers,  would  be  forming  a  judgment 
against  every-day  proof.  The  gradual  manner  in  which 
the  character  of  his  playing  has  opened  upon  me  satisfies 
me,  that  in  acting,  as  in  everything  else,  however  deep  may 
be  the  first  effect  of  genius  upon  us,  we  come  slowly,  and 
through  study,  to  a  perception  of  its  minute  beauties  and 
delicate  characteristics.  After  all,  the  greater  part  of 
men  seldom  get  beyond  the  first  general  impression. 

As  there  must  needs  go  a  modicum  of  fault-finding  along 
with  commendation,  it  may  be  well  to  remark,  that  Kean 
plays  his  hands  too  much  at  times,  and  moves  about  the 
dress  over  his  breast  and  neck  too  frequently  in  his  hur 
ried  and  impatient  passages,  and  that  he  does  not  always 
adhere  with  sufficient  accuracy  to  the  received  readings  of 
Shakspeare,  and  that  the  effect  would  be  greater,  upon  the 
whole,  were  he  to  be  more  sparing  of  sudden  changes  from 
violent  voice  and  gesticulation  to  a  low  conversation-tone 
and  subdued  manner. 

His  frequent  use  of  these  in  Sir  Giles  Overreach  is 
with  good  effect,  for  Sir  Giles  is  playing  his  part;  so,  too, 
in  Lear,  for  Lear's  passions  are  gusty  and  shifting ;  but,  in 
the  main,  it  is  a  kind  of  playing  too  marked  and  striking  to 
bear  so  frequent  repetition,  and  had  better  sometimes  be 
spared,  where,  considered  alone,  it  might  be  properly 
enough  used,  for  the  sake  of  bringing  it  in  at  some  other 
place  with  greater  effect. 

It  is  well  to  speak  of  these  defects,  for  though  the  little 
faults  of  genius,  in  themselves  considered,  but  slightly  af 
fect  those  who  can  enter  into  its  true  character,  yet  such 
are  made  impatient  at  the  thought,  that  an  opportunity  is 
given  those  to  carp  who  know  not  how  to  commend. 

Though  I  have  taken  up  a  good  deal  of  room,  I  must  end 


KEAN'S  ACTING  61 

without  speaking  of  many  things  which  occur  to  me.  Some 
'will  be  of  the  opinion  that  I  have  already  said  enough. 
Thinking  of  Kean  as  I  do,  I  could  not  honestly  have  said 
less ;  for  I  hold  it  to  be  a  low  and  wicked  thing  to  keep 
back  from  merit  of  any  kind  its  due, — and,  with  Steele,  that 
"  there  is  something  wonderful  in  the  narrowness  of  those 
minds  which  can  be  pleased,  and  be  barren  of  bounty  to 
those  who  please  them." 

Although  the  self-important,  out  of  self-concern,  give 
praise  sparingly,  and  the  mean  measure  theirs  by  their 
likings  or  dislikings  of  a  man,  and  the  good  even  are  often 
slow  to  allow  the  talents  of  the  faulty  their  due,  lest  they 
bring  the  evil  to  repute ;  yet  it  is  the  wiser  as  well  as  the 
honester  course,  not  to  disparage  an  excellence  because 
it  neighbors  upon  a  fault,  nor  to  take  away  from  another 
what  is  his  of  right,  with  a  view  to  our  own  name,  nor  to 
rest  our  character  for  discernment  upon  the  promptings  of 
an  unkind  heart.  Where  God  has  not  feared  to  bestow 
great  powers,  we  may  not  fear  giving  them  their  due; 
nor  need  we  be  parsimonious  of  commendation,  as  if  there 
were  but  a  certain  quantity  for  distribution,  and  our  liber 
ality  would  be  to  our  loss;  nor  should  we  hold  it  safe  to 
detract  from  another's  merit,  as  if  we  could  always  keep 
the  world  blind,  lest  we  live  to  see  him  whom  we  dis 
paraged,  praised,  and  whom  we  hated,  loved. 

Whatever  be  his  failings,  give  every  man  a  full  and 
ready  commendation  for  that  in  which  he  excels;  it  will 
do  good  to  our  own  hearts,  while  it  cheers  his.  Nor  will  it 
bring  our  judgment  into  question  with  the  discerning;  for 
enthusiasm  for  what  is  great  does  not  argue  such  an  un 
happy  want  of  discrimination  as  that  measured  and  cold 
approval,  which  is  bes-towed  alike  upon  men  of  mediocrity 
and  upon  those  of  gifted  minds. 


GIFTS 
RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

"  Gifts  of  one  who  loved  me, — 
'Twas  high  time  they  came; 
When  he  ceased  to  love  me, 
Time  they  stopped  for  shame." 

IT  is  said  that  the  world  is  in  a  state  of  bankruptcy,  that 
the  world  owes  the  world  more  than  the  world  can  pay, 
and  ought  to  go  into  chancery,  and  be  sold.  I  do  not  think 
this  general  insolvency,  which  involves  in  some  sort  all 
the  population,  to  be  the  reason  of  the  difficulty  experienced 
at  Christmas  and  New  Year,  and  other  times,  in  bestowing 
gifts;  since  it  is  always  so  pleasant  to  be  generous,  though 
very  vexatious  to  pay  debts.  But  the  impediment  lies  in 
the  choosing.  If,  at  any  time,  it  comes  into  my  head  that 
a  present  is  due  from  me  to  somebody,  I  am  puzzled  what 
to  give  until  the  opportunity  is  gone.  Flowers  and  fruits 
are  always  fit  presents ;  flowers,  because  they  are  a  proud 
assertion  that  a  ray  of  beauty  outvalues  all  the  utilities  of 
the  world.  These  gay  natures  contrast  with  the  somewhat 
stern  countenance  of  ordinary  nature;  they  are  like  music 
heard  out  of  a  workhouse.  Nature  does  not  cocker  us:  we 
are  children,  not  pets:  she  is  not  fond:  everything  is  dealt 
to  us  without  fear  or  favor,  after  severe  universal  laws. 
Yet  these  delicate  flowers  look  like  the  frolic  and  interfer 
ence  of  love  and  beauty.  Men  used-to  tell  us  that  we  love 
flattery,  even  though  we  are  not  deceived  by  it,  because  it 
shows  that  we  are  of  importance  enough  to  be  courted. 

62 


GIFTS  63 

Something  like  that  pleasure  the  flowers  give  us :  what  am 
I  to  whom  these  sweet  hints  are  addressed?  Fruits  are 
acceptable  gifts  because  they  are  the  flower  of  commodities, 
and  admit  of  fantastic  values  being  attached  to  them.  If  a 
man  should  send  to  me  to  come  a  hundred  miles  to  visit 
him,  and  should  set  before  me  a  basket  of  fine  summer 
fruit,  I  should  think  there  was  some  proportion  between  the 
labor  and  the  reward. 

For  common  gifts,  necessity  makes  pertinences  and 
beauty  every  day,  and  one  is  glad  when  an  imperative  leaves 
him  no  option,  since  if  the  man  at  the  door  have  no  shoes, 
you  have  not  to  consider  whether  you  could  procure  him 
a  paint-box.  And  as  it  is  always  pleasing  to  see  a  man  eat 
bread,  or  drink  water,  in  the  house  or  out  of  doors,  so  it  is 
always  a  great  satisfaction  to  supply  these  first  wants. 
Necessity  does  everything  well.  In  our  condition  of  uni 
versal  dependence,  it  seems  heroic  to  let  the  petitioner  be 
the  judge  of  his  necessity,  and  to  give  all  that  is  asked, 
though  at  great  inconvenience.  If  it  be  a  fantastic  desire, 
it  is  better  to  leave  to  others  the  office  of  punishing  him. 
I  can  think  of  many  parts  I  should  prefer  playing  to  that 
of  the  Furies.  Next  to  things  of  necessity,  the  rule  for  a 
gift  which  one  of  my  friends  prescribed  is,  that  we  might 
convey  to  some  person  that  which  properly  belonged  to  his 
character,  and  was  easily  associated  with  him  in  thought. 
But  our  tokens  of  compliment  and  love  are  for  the  most 
part  barbarous.  Rings  and  other  jewels  are  not  gifts,  but 
apologies  for  gifts.  The  only  gift  is  a  portion  of  thyself. 
Thou  must  bleed  for  me.  Therefore  the  poet  brings  his 
poem ;  the  shepherd,  his  lamb ;  the  farmer,  corn ;  the  miner, 
a  gem ;  the  sailor,  coral  and  shells ;  the  painter,  his  picture ; 
the  girl,  a  handkerchief  of  her  own  sewing.  This  is  right 
and  pleasing,  for  it  restores  society  in  so  far  to  the  primary 
basis,  when  a  man's  biography  is  conveyed  in  his  gift,  and 


64  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

every  man's  wealth  is  an  index  of  his  merit.  But  it  is  a 
cold,  lifeless  business  when  you  go  to  the  shops  to  buy  me 
something,  which  does  not  represent  your  life  and  talent, 
but  a  goldsmith's.  This  is  fit  for  kings,  and  rich  men  who 
represent  kings,  and  a  false  state  of  property,  to  make 
presents  of  gold  and  silver  stuffs,  as  a  kind  of  symbolical 
sin-offering,  or  payment  of  blackmail. 

The  law  of  benefits  is  a  difficult  channel,  which  requires 
careful  sailing,  or  rude  boats.  It  is  not  the  office  of  a  man 
to  receive  gifts.  How  dare  you  give  them?  We  wish  to 
be  self-sustained.  We  do  not  quite  forgive  a  giver.  The 
hand  that  feeds  us  is  in  some  danger  of  being  bitten.  We 
can  receive  anything  from  love,  for  that  is  a  way  of  re 
ceiving  it  from  ourselves;  but  not  from  anyone  who  as 
sumes  to  bestow.  We  sometimes  hate  the  meat  which  we 
eat,  because  there  seems  something  of  degrading  depend 
ence  in  living  by  it. 

"  Brother,  if  Jove  to  thee  a  present  make, 
Take  heed  that  from  his  hands  thou  nothing  take." 

We  ask  the  whole.  Nothing  less  will  content  us.  We 
arraign  society  if  it  do  not  give  us  besides  earth,  and  fire, 
and  water,  opportunity,  love,  reverence,  and  objects  of 
veneration. 

He  is  a  good  man  who  can  receive  a  gift  well.  We  are 
either  glad  or  sorry  at  a  gift,  and  both  emotions  are  un 
becoming.  Some  violence,  I  think,  is  done,  some  degrada 
tion  borne,  when  I  rejoice  or  grieve  at  a  gift.  I  am  sorry 
when  my  independence  is  invaded,  or  when  a  gift  comes 
from  such  as  do  not  know  my  spirit,  and  so  the  act  is 
not  supported;  and  if  the  gift  pleases  me  overmuch,  then  I 
should  be  ashamed  that  the  donor  should  read  my  heart, 
and  see  that  I  love  his  commodity,  and  not  him.  The  gift, 
to  be  true,  must  be  the  flowing  of  the  giver  unto  me,  cor- 


GIFTS  65 

respondent  to  my  flowing  unto  him.  When  the  waters 
are  at  level,  then  my  goods  pass  to  him,  and  his  to  me. 
All  his  are  mine,  all  mine  his.  I  say  to  him,  How  can 
you  give  me  this  pot  of  oil,  or  this  flagon  of  wine,  when 
all  your  oil  and  wine  is  mine,  which  belief  of  mine  this  gift 
seems  to  deny?  Hence  the  fitness  of  beautiful,  not  useful 
things  for  gifts.  This  giving  is  flat  usurpation,  and  there 
fore  when  the  beneficiary  is  ungrateful,  as  all  beneficiaries 
hate  all  Timons,  not  at  all  considering  the  value  of  the  gift, 
but  looking  back  to  the  greater  store  it  was  taken  from,  I 
rather  sympathize  with  the  beneficiary  than  with  the  anger 
of  my  lord  Timon.  For,  the  expectation  of  gratitude  is 
mean,  and  is  continually  punished  by  the  total  insensibility 
of  the  obliged  rjerson.  It  is  a  great  happiness  to  get  off 
without  injury  and  heart-burning,  from  one  who  has  had 
the  ill-luck  to  be  served  by  you.  It  is  a  very  onerous  busi 
ness,  this  of  being  served,  and  the  debtor  naturally  wishes 
to  give  you  a  slap.  A  golden  text  for  these  gentlemen  is 
that  which  I  so  admire  in  the  Buddhist,  who  never  thanks, 
and  who  says,  "  Do  not  flatter  your  benefactors." 

The  reason  for  these  discords  I  conceive  to  be  that  there 
is  no  commensurability  between  a  man  and  any  gift.  You 
cannot  give  anything  to  a  magnanimous  person.  After 
you  have  served  him  he  at  once  puts  you  in  debt  by  his 
magnanimity.  The  service  a  man  renders  his  friend  is 
trivial  and  selfish,  compared  with  the  service  he  knows  his 
friend  stood  in  readiness  to  yield  him,  alike  before  he  had 
begun  to  serve  his  friend,  and  now  also.  Compared  with 
that  good-will  I  bear  my  friend,  the  benefit  it  is  in  my 
power  to  render  him  seems  small.  Besides,  our  action  on 
each  other,  good  as  well'  as  evil,  is  so  incidental  and  at 
random,  that  we  can  seldom  hear  the  acknowledgments  of 
any  person  who  would  thank  us  for  a  benefit,  without  some 
shame  and  humiliation.  We  can  rarely  strike  a  direct 


66  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

stroke,  but  must  be  content  with  an  oblique  one ;  we  seldom 
have  the  satisfaction  of  yielding  a  direct  benefit,  which  is 
directly  received.  But  rectitude  scatters  favors  on  every 
side  without  knowing  it,  and  receives  with  wonder  the 
thanks  of  all  people. 

I  fear  to  breathe  any  treason  against  the  majesty  of  love, 
which  is  the  genius  and  god  of  gifts,  and  to  whom  we  must 
not  affect  to  prescribe.  Let  him  give  kingdoms  or  flower- 
leaves  indifferently.  There  are  persons  from  whom  we 
always  expect  fairy-tokens;  let  us  not  cease  to  expect 
them.  This  is  prerogative,  and  not  to  be  limited  by  our 
municipal  rules.  For  the  rest,  I  like  to  see  that  we  cannot 
be  bought  and  sold.  The  best  of  hospitality  and  of  gener 
osity  is  also  not  in  the  will,  but  in  fate.  I  find  that  I  am 
not  much  to  you ;  you  do  not  need  me ;  you  do  not  feel 
me;  then  am  I  thrust  out  of  doors,  though  you  proffer 
me  house  and  lands.  No  services  are  of  any  value,  but 
only  likeness.  When  I  have  attempted  to  join  myself  to 
others  by  services,  it  proved  an  intellectual  trick, — no 
more.  They  eat  your  service  like  apples,  and  leave  you 
out.  But  love  them,  and  they  feel  you,  and  delight  in  you 
all  the  time. 


USES  OF  GREAT  MEN 
RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

IT  is  natural  to  believe  in  great  men.  If  the  companions 
of  our  childhood  should  turn  out  to  be  heroes,  and  their 
condition  regal,  it  would  not  surprise  us.  All  mythology 
opens  with  demigods,  and  the  circumstance  is  high  and 
poetic ;  that  is,  their  genius  is  paramount.  In  the  legends  of 
the  Gautama,  the  first  men  ate  the  earth,  and  found  it  deli- 
ciously  sweet. 

Nature  seems  to  exist  for  the  excellent.  The  world  is 
upheld  by  the  veracity  of  good  men:  they  make  the  earth 
wholesome.  They  who  lived  with  them  found  life  glad 
and  nutritious.  Life  is  sweet  and  tolerable  only  in  our 
belief  in  such  society;  and  actually  or  ideally  we  manage 
to  live  with  superiors.  We  call  our  children  and  our  lands 
by  their  names.  Their  names  are  wrought  into  the  verbs  of 
language,  their  works  and  effigies  are  in  our  houses,  and 
every  circumstance  of  the  day  recalls  an  anecdote  of  them. 

The  search  after  the  great  is  the  dream  of  youth  and 
the  most  serious  occupation  of  manhood.  We  travel  into 
foreign  parts  to  find  his  works — if  possible,  to  ge-t  a  glimpse 
of  him.  But  we  are  put  off  with  fortune  instead.  You 
say  the  English  are  practical;  the  Germans  are  hospitable; 
in  Valencia  the  climate  is  delicious ;  and  in  the  hills  of  the 
Sacramento  there  is  gold  for  the  gathering.  Yes,  but  I 
do  not  travel  to  find  comfortable,  rich,  and  hospitable  peo 
ple,  or  clear  sky,  or  ingots  that  cost  too  much.  But  if  there 
were  any  magnet  that  would  point  to  the  countries  and 

67 


68  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

houses  where  are  the  persons  who  are  intrinsically  rich 
and  powerful,  I  would  sell  all,  and  buy  it,  and  put  myself 
on  the  road  to-day. 

The  race  goes  with  us  on  their  credit.  The  knowledge 
that  in  the  city  is  a  man  who  invented  the  railroad  raises 
the  credit  of  all  the  citizens.  But  enormous  populations,  if 
they  be  beggars,  are  disgusting,  like  moving  cheese,  like 
hills  of  ants  or  of  fleas — the  more,  the  worse. 

Our  religion  is  the  love  and  cherishing  of  these  patrons. 
The  gods  of  fable  are  the  shining  moments  of  great  men. 
We  run  all  our  vessels  into  one  mould.  Our  colossal 
theologies  of  Judaism,  Christism,  Buddhism,  Mahometism, 
are  the  necessary  and  structural  action  of  the  human  mind. 
The  student  of  history  is  like  a  man  going  into  a  ware 
house  to  buy  cloths  or  carpets.  He  fancies  he  has  a  new 
article.  If  he  go  to  the  factory,  he  shall  find  that  his  new 
stuff  still  repeats  the  scrolls  and  rosettes  which  are  found 
on  the  interior  walls  of  the  pyramids  of  Thebes.  Our  theism 
is  the  purification  of  the  human  mind.  Man  can  paint,  or 
make,  or  think  nothing  but  man.  He  believes  that  the  great 
material  elements  had  their  origin  from  his  thought.  And 
our  philosophy  finds  one  essence  collected  or  distributed. 

If  now  we  proceed  to  inquire  into  the  kinds  of  service 
we  derive  from  others,  let  us  be  warned  of  the  danger  of 
modern  studies,  and  begin  low  enough.  We  must  not  con 
tend  against  love,  or  deny  the  substantial  existence  of  other 
people.  I  know  not  what  would  happen  to  us.  We  have 
social  strengths.  Our  affection  towards  others  creates  a 
sort  of  vantage  or  purchase  which  nothing  will  supply.  I 
can  do  that  by  another  which  I  cannot  do  alone.  I  can  say 
to  you  what  I  cannot  first  say  to  myself.  Other  men  are 
lenses  through  which  we  read  our  own  minds.  Each  man 
seeks  those  of  different  quality  from  his  own,  and  such  as 
are  good  of  their  kind;  that  is,  he  seeks  other  men,  and 


USES  OF  GREAT  MEN  69 

the  otherest.  The  stronger  the  nature,  the  more  it  is  reac 
tive.  Let  us  have  the  quality  pure.  A  little  genius  let  us 
leave  alone.  A  main  difference  betwixt  men  is,  whether 
they  attend  their  own  affair  or  not.  Man  is  that  noble 
endogenous  plant  which  grows,  like  the  palm,  from  within 
outward.  His  own  affair,  though  impossible  to  others,  he 
can  open  with  celerity  and  in  sport.  It  is  easy  to  sugar  to 
be  sweet,  and  to  nitre  to  be  salt.  We  take  a  great  deal  of 
pains  to  waylay  and  entrap  that  which  of  itself  will  fall 
into  our  hands.  I  count  him  a  great  man  who  inhabits  a 
higher  sphere  of  thought,  into  which  other  men  rise  with 
labor  and  difficulty;  he  has  but  to  open  his  eyes  to  see 
things  in  a  true  light,  and  in  large  relations;  whilst  they 
must  make  painful  corrections,  and  keep  a  vigilant  eye  on 
many  sources  of  error.  His  service  to  us  is  of  like  sort.  It 
costs  a  beautiful  person  no  exertion  to  paint  her  image 
on  our  eyes;  yet  how  splendid  is  that  benefit!  It  costs  no 
more  for  a  wise  soul  to  convey  his  quality  to  other  men. 
And  everyone  can  do  his  best  thing  easiest.  "  Peu  de 
moyens,  beaucoup  d'effet."  He  is  great  who  is  what  he  is 
from  nature,  and  who  never  reminds  us  of  others. 

But  he  must  be  related  to  us,  and  our  life  receive  from 
him  some  promise  of  explanation.  I  cannot  tell  what  I 
would  know ;  but  I  have  observed  there  are  persons  who, 
in  their  character  and  actions,  answer  questions  which  I 
have  not  skill  to  put.  One  man  answers  some  questions 
which  none  of  his  contemporaries  put,  and  is  isolated.  The 
past  and  passing  religions  and  philosophies  answer  some 
other  question.  Certain  men  affect  us  as  rich  possibilities, 
but  helpless  to  themselves  and  to  their  times, — the  sport, 
perhaps,  of  some  instinct  that  rules  in  the  air, — they  do 
not  speak  to  our  want.  But  the  great  are  near;  we  know 
them  at  sight.  They  satisfy  expectation,  and  fall  into  place. 
What  is  good  is  effective,  generative;  makes  for  itself 


70  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

room,  food,  and  allies.  A  sound  apple  produces  seed — a 
hybrid  does  not.  Is  a  man  in  his  place,  he  is  constructive, 
fertile,  magnetic,  inundating  armies  with  his  purpose,  which 
is  thus  executed.  The  river  makes  its  own  shores,  and  each 
legitimate  idea  makes  its  own  channels  and  welcome — 
harvests  for  food,  institutions  for  expression,  weapons  to 
fight  with,  and  disciples  to  explain  it.  The  true  artist  has 
the  planet  for  his  pedestal;  the  adventurer,  after  years  of 
strife,  has  nothing  broader  than  his  own  shoes. 

Our  common  discourse  respects  two  kinds  of  use  or 
service  from  superior  men.  Direct  giving  is  agreeable  to 
the  early  belief  of  men;  direct  giving  of  material  or 
metaphysical  aid,  as  of  health,  eternal  youth,  fine  senses, 
arts  of  healing,  magical  power,  and  prophecy.  The  boy 
believes  there  is  a  teacher  who  can  sell  him  wisdom. 
Churches  believe  in  imputed  merit.  But,  in  strictness,  we 
are  not  much  cognizant  of  direct  serving.  Man  is  endoge 
nous,  and  education  is  his  unfolding.  The  aid  we  have 
from  others  is  mechanical,  compared  with  the  discoveries 
of  nature  in  us.  What  is  thus  learned  is  delightful  in  the 
doing,  and  the  effect  remains.  Right  ethics  are  central, 
and  go  from  the  soul  outward.  Gift  is  contrary  to  the 
law  of  the  universe.  Serving  others  is  serving  us.  I  must 
absolve  me  to  myself.  "  Mind  thy  affair,"  says  the  spirit ; 
"  coxcomb,  would  you  meddle  with  the  skies,  or  with  other 
people?"  Indirect  service  is  left.  Men  have  a  pictorial  or 
representative  quality,  and  serve  us  in  the  intellect. 
Behmen  and  Swedenborg  saw  that  things  were  representa 
tive.  Men  are  also  representative;  first,  of  things,  and 
secondly,  of  ideas. 

As  plants  convert  the  minerals  into  food  for  animals,  so 
each  man  converts  some  raw  material  in  nature  to  human 
use.  The  inventors  of  fire,  electricity,  magnetism,  iron, 
lead,  glass,  linen,  silk,  cotton;  the  makers  of  tools;  the 


USES  OF  GREAT  MEN  71 

inventor  of  decimal  notation;  the  geometer;  the  engineer; 
the  musician,  severally  make  an  easy  way  for  all  through 
unknown  and  impossible  confusions.  Each  man  is,  by 
secret  liking,  connected  with  some  district  of  nature,  whose 
agent  and  interpreter  he  is,  as  Linnaeus,  of  plants;  Huber, 
of  bees;  Fries,  of  lichens;  Van  Mons,  of  pears;  Dalton,  of 
atomic  forms;  Euclid,  of  lines;  Newton,  of  fluxions. 

A  man  is  a  center  for  nature,  running  out  threads  of 
relation  through  everything,  fluid  and  solid,  material  and 
elemental.  The  earth  rolls;  every  clod  and  stone  comes 
to  the  meridian;  so  every  organ,  function,  acid,  crystal, 
grain  of  dust,  has  its  relation  to  the  brain.  It  waits  long, 
but  its  turn  comes.  Each  plant  has  its  parasite,  and  each 
created  thing  its  lover  and  poet.  Justice  has  already  been 
done  to  steam,  to  iron,  to  wood,  to  coal,  to  loadstone,  to 
iodine,  to  corn  and  cotton;  but  how  few  materials  are  yet 
used  by  our  arts !  The  mass  of  creatures  and  of  qualities 
are  still  hid  and  expectant.  It  would  seem  as  if  each 
waited,  like  the  enchanted  princess  in  fairy  tales,  for  a 
destined  human  deliverer.  Each  must  be  disenchanted, 
and  walk  forth  to  the  day  in  human  shape.  In  the  history 
of  discovery,  the  ripe  and  latent  truth  seems  to  have  fash 
ioned  a  brain  for  itself.  A  magnet  must  be  made  man,  in 
some  Gilbert,  or  Swedenborg,  or  Oersted,  before  the  gen 
eral  mind  can  come  to  entertain  its  powers. 

If  we  limit  ourselves  to  the  first  advantages:  a  sober 
grace  adheres  to  the  mineral  and  botanic  kingdoms,  which 
in  the  highest  moments  comes  up  as  the  charm  of  nature, 
the  glitter  of  the  spar,  the  sureness  of  affinity,  the  veracity 
of  angles.  Light  and  darkness,  heat  and  cold,  hunger  and 
food,  sweet  and  sour,  solid,  liquid,  and  gas,  circle  us  round 
in  a  wreath  of  pleasures,  and,  by  their  agreeable  quarrel, 
beguile  the  day  of  life.  The  eye  repeats  every  day  the 
first  eulogy  on  things — "  He  saw  that  they  were  good." 


72  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

We  know  where  to  find  them;  and  these  performers  are 
relished  all  the  more  after  a  little  experience  of  the  pre 
tending  races.  We  are  entitled,  also,  to  higher  advantages. 
Something  is  wanting  to  science,  until  it  has  been  human 
ized.  The  table  of  logarithms  is  one  thing,  and  its  vital 
play,  in  botany,  music,  optics,  and  architecture,  another. 
There  are  advancements  to  numbers,  anatomy,  architecture, 
astronomy,  little  suspected  at  first,  when,  by  union  with 
intellect  and  will,  they  ascend  into  the  life,  and  reappear 
in  conversation,  character,  and  politics. 

But  this  comes  later.  We  speak  now  only  of  our  ac 
quaintance  with  them  in  their  own  sphere,  and  the  way  in 
which  they  seem  to  fascinate  and  draw  to  them  some 
genius  who  occupies  himself  with  one  thing  all  his  life 
long.  The  possibility  of  interpretation  lies  in  the  identity 
of  the  observer  with  the  observed.  Each  material  thing 
has  its  celestial  side;  has  its  translation,  through  humanity, 
into  the  spiritual  and  necessary  sphere,  where  it  plays  a 
part  as  indestructible  as  any  other.  And  to  these,  their 
ends,  all  things  continually  ascend.  The  gases  gather  to 
the  solid  firmament;  the  chemic  lump  arrives  at  the  plant, 
and  grows ;  arrives  at  the  quadruped,  and  walks ;  arrives 
at  the  man,  and  thinks.  But  also  the  constituency  de 
termines  the  vote  of  the  representative.  He  is  not  only 
representative,  but  participant.  Like  can  only  be  known 
by  like.  The  reason  why  he  knows  about  them  is,  that  he 
is  of  them ;  he  has  just  come  out  of  nature,  or  from  being 
a  part  of  that  thing.  Animated  chlorine  knows  of  chlorine, 
and  incarnate  zinc,  of  zinc.  Their  quality  makes  his  career ; 
and  he  can  variously  publish  their  virtues,  because  they 
compose  him.  Man,  made  of  the  dust  of  the  world,  does 
not  forget  his  origin ;  and  all  that  is  yet  inanimate  will  one 
day  speak  and  reason.  Unpublished  nature  will  have  its 
whole  secret  told.  Shall  we  say  that  quartz  mountains  will 


USES  OF  GREAT  MEN  73 

pulverize  into  innumerable  Werners,  Von  Buchs,  and  Beau- 
monts ;  and  the  laboratory  of  the  atmosphere  holds  in  solu 
tion  I  know  not  what  Berzeliuses  and  Davys? 

Thus  we  sit  by  the  fire,  and  take  hold  on  the  poles  of 
the  earth.  This  quasi  omnipresence  supplies  the  imbecility 
of  our  condition.  In  one  of  those  celestial  days,  when 
heaven  and  earth  meet  and  adorn  each  other,  it  seems  a 
poverty  that  we  can  only  spend  it  once :  we  wish  for  a 
thousand  heads,  a  thousand  bodies,  that  we  might  celebrate 
its  immense  beauty  in  many  ways  and  places.  Is  this 
fancy?  Well,  in  good  faith,  we  are  multiplied  by  our 
proxies.  How  easily  we  adopt  their  labors.  Every  ship 
that  comes  to  America  got  its  chart  from  Columbus.  Every 
novel  is  a  debtor  to  Homer.  Every  carpenter  who  shaves 
with  a  foreplane  borrows  the  genius  of  a  forgotten  in 
ventor.  Life  is  girt  all  round  with  a  zodiac  of  sciences, 
the  contributions  of  men  who  have  perished  to  add  their 
point  of  light  to  our  sky.  Engineer,  broker,  jurist,  physi 
cian,  moralist,  theologian,  and  every  man,  inasmuch  as  he 
has  any  science,  is  a  definer  and  map-maker  of  the  latitudes 
and  longitudes  of  our  condition.  These  road-makers  on 
every  hand  enrich  us.  We  must  extend  the  area  of  life, 
and  multiply  our  relations.  We  are  as  much  gainers  by 
finding  a  new  property  in  the  old  earth  as  by  acquiring  a 
new  planet. 

We  are  too  passive  in  the  reception  of  these  material  or 
semi-material  aids.  We  must  not  be  sacks  and  stomachs. 
To  ascend  one  step — we  are  better  served  through  our 
sympathy.  Activity  is  contagious.  Looking  where  others 
look,  and  conversing  with  the  same  things,  we  catch  the 
charm  which  lured  them.  Napoleon  said,  "  You  must  not 
fight  too  often  with  one  enemy,  or  you  will  teach  him  all 
your  art  of  war."  Talk  much  with  any  man  of  vigorous 
mind,  and  we  acquire  very  fast  the  habit  of  looking  at 


74  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

things  in  the  same  light,  and,  041  each  occurrence,  we  an 
ticipate  his  thought. 

Men  are  helpful  through  the  intellect  and  the  affections. 
Other  help,  I  find  a  false  appearance.  If  'you  affect  to 
give  me  bread  and  fire,  I  perceive  that  I  pay  for  it  the  full 
price,  and  at  last  it  leaves  me  as  it  found  me,  neither  better 
nor  worse;  but  all  mental  and  moral  force  is  a  positive 
good.  It  goes  out  from  you,  whether  you  will  or  not,  and 
profits  me  whom  you  never  thought  of.  I  cannot  even  hear 
of  personal  vigor  of  any  kind,  great  power  of  performance, 
without  fresh  resolution.  We  are  emulous  of  all  that  man 
can  do.  Cecil's  saying  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  "  I  know 
that  he  can  toil  terribly,"  is  an  electric  touch.  So  are 
Clarendon's  portraits — of  Hampden :  "  who  was  of  an  in 
dustry  and  vigilance  not  to  be  tired  out  or  wearied  by  the 
most  laborious,  and  of  parts  not  to  be  imposed  on  by  the 
most  subtle  and  sharp,  and  of  a  personal  courage  equal  to 
his  best  parts ;" — of  Falkland :  "  who  was  so  severe  an 
adorer  of  truth  that  he  could  as  easily  have  given  himself 
leave  to  steal  as  to  dissemble."  We  cannot  read  Plutarch 
without  a  tingling  of  the  blood;  and  I  accept  the  saying  of 
the  Chinese  Mencius :  "  A  sage  is  the  instructor  of  a  hun 
dred  ages.  When  the  manners  of  Loo  are  heard  of,  the 
stupid  become  intelligent,  and  the  wavering,  determined." 

This  is  the  moral  of  biography;  yet  it  is  hard  for  de 
parted  men  to  touch  the  quick  like  our  own  companions, 
whose  names  may  not  last  as  long.  What  is  he  whom  I 
never  think  of?  whilst  in  every  solitude  are  those  who  suc 
cor  our  genius,  and  stimulate  us  in  wonderful  manners. 
There  is  a  power  in  love  to  divine  another's  destiny  better 
than  that  other  can,  and,  by  heroic  encouragements,  hold 
him  to  his  task.  What  has  friendship  so  signal  as  its  sub 
lime  attraction  to  whatever  virtue  is  in  us  ?  We  will  never 
more  think  cheaply  of  ourselves,  or  of  life.  We  are  piqued 


USES  OF  GREAT  MEN  75 

to  some  purpose,  and  the  industry  of  the  diggers  on  the 
railroad  will  not  again  shame  us. 

Under  this  head,  too,  falls  that  homage,  very  pure,  as  I 
think,  which  all  ranks  pay  to  the  hero  of  the  day,  from 
Coriolanus  and  Gracchus,  down  to  Pitt,  Lafayette,  Well 
ington,  Webster,  Lamartine.  Hear  the  shouts  in  the  street ! 
The  people  cannot  see  him  enough.  They  delight  in  a 
man.  Here  is  a  head  and  a  trunk!  What  a  front!  What 
eyes!  Atlantean  shoulders,  and  the  whole  carriage  heroic, 
with  equal  inward  force  to  guide  the  great  machine !  This 
pleasure  of  full  expression  to  that  which,  in  their  private 
experience,  is  usually  cramped  and  obstructed,  runs,  also, 
much  higher,  and  is  the  secret  of  the  reader's  joy  in  literary 
genius.  Nothing  is  kept  back.  There  is  fire  enough  to 
fuse  the  mountain  of  ore.  Shakspeare's  principal  merit 
may  be  conveyed  in  saying  that  he,  of  all  men,  best  under 
stands  the  English  language,  and  can  say  what  he  will. 
Yet  these  unchoked  channels  and  floodgates  of  expression 
are  only  health  or  fortunate  constitution.  Shakspeare's 
name  suggests  other  and  purely  intellectual  benefits. 

Senates  and  sovereigns  have  no  compliment,  with  their 
medals,  swords,  and  armorial  coats,  like  the  addressing  to 
a  human  being  thoughts  out  of  a  certain  height,  and  pre 
supposing  his  intelligence.  This  honor,  which  is  possible 
in  personal  intercourse  scarcely  twice  in  a  lifetime,  genius 
perpetually  pays ;  contented,  if  now  and  then,  in  a  century; 
the  proffer  is  accepted.  The  indicators  of  the  values  of 
matter  are  degraded  to  a  sort  of  cooks  and  confectioners, 
on  the  appearance  of  the  indicators  of  ideas.  Genius  is 
the  naturalist  or  geographer  of  the  supersensible  regions, 
and  draws  their  map;  and,  by  acquainting  us  with  new 
fields  of  activity,  cools  our  affection  for  the  old.  These 
are  at  once  accepted  as  the  reality,  of  which  the  world  we 
have  conversed  with  is  the  show. 


76  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

We  go  to  the  gymnasium  and  the  swimming-school  to 
see  the  power  and  beauty  of  the  body;  there  is  the  like 
pleasure,  and  higher  benefit,  from  witnessing  intellectual 
feats  of  all  kinds;  as  feats  of  memory,  of  mathematical 
combination,  great  power  of  abstraction,  the  transmutings 
of  the  imagination,  even  versatility  and  concentration,  as 
these  acts  expose  the  invisible  organs  and  members  of  the 
mind,  which  respond,  member  for  member,  to  the  parts  of 
the  body.  For  we  thus  enter  a  new  gymnasium,  and  learn 
to  choose  men  by  their  truest  marks,  taught,  with  Plato, 
"  to  choose  those  who  can,  without  aid  from  the  eyes  or 
any  other  sense,  proceed  to  truth  and  to  being."  Foremost 
among  these  activities  are  the  summersaults,  spells,  and 
resurrections  wrought  by  the  imagination.  When  this 
wakes,  a  man  seems  to  multiply  ten  times  or  a  thousand 
times  his  force.  It  opens  the  delicious  sense  of  indeter 
minate  size,  and  inspires  an  audacious  mental  habit.  We 
are  as  elastic  as  the  gas  of  gunpowder,  and  a  sentence  in  a 
book  or  a  word  dropped  in  conversation  sets  free  our  fancy, 
and  instantly  our  heads  are  bathed  with  galaxies,  and  our 
feet  tread  the  floor  of  the  pit.  And  this  benefit  is  real,  be 
cause  we  are  entitled  to  these  enlargements,  and,  once  having 
passed  the  bounds,  shall  never  again  be  quite  the  miserable 
pedants  we  were. 

The  high  functions  of  the  intellect  are  so  allied  that  some 
imaginative  power  usually  appears  in  all  eminent  minds, 
even  in  arithmeticians  of  the  first  class,  but  especially  in 
meditative  men  of  an  intuitive  habit  of  thought.  This  class 
serve  us,  so  that  they  have  the  perception  of  identity  and 
the  perception  of  reaction.  The  eyes  of  Plato,  Shakspeare, 
Swedenborg,  Goethe,  never  shut  on  either  of  these  laws. 
The  perception  of  these  laws  is  a  kind  of  meter  of  the 
mind.  Little  minds  are  little,  through  failure  to  see  them. 

Even  these   feasts   have   their   surfeit.     Our   delight   in 


USES  OF  GREAT  MEN  77 

reason  degenerates  into  idolatry  of  the  herald.  Especially 
when  a  mind  of  powerful  method  has  instructed  men,  we 
find  the  examples  of  oppression.  The  dominion  of 
Aristotle,  the  Ptolemaic  astronomy,  the  credit  of  Luther,  of 
Bacon,  of  Locke, — in  religion,  the  history  of  hierarchies,  of 
saints,  and  the  sects  which  have  taken  the  name  of  each 
founder, — are  in  point.  Alas !  every  man  is  such  a  victim. 
The  imbecility  of  men  is  always  inviting  the  impudence  of 
power.  It  is  the  delight  of  vulgar  talent  t'o  dazzle  and  to 
blind  the  beholder.  But  true  genius  seeks  to  defend  us 
from  itself.  True  genius  will  not  impoverish,  but  will 
liberate,  and  add  new  senses.  If  a  wise  man  should  appear 
in  our  village,  he  would  create,  in  those  who  conversed 
with  him,  a  new  consciousness  of  wealth,  by  opening  their 
eyes  to  unobserved  advantages ;  he  would  establish  a  sense  of 
immovable  equality,  calm  us  with  assurances  that  we  could 
not  be  cheated;  as  everyone  would  discern  the  checks  and 
guaranties  of  condition.  The  rich  would  see  their  mistakes 
and  poverty,  the  poor  their  escapes  and  their  resources. 

But  nature  brings  all  this  about  in  due  time.  Rotation  is 
her  remedy.  The  soul  is  impatient  of  masters,  and  eager 
for  change.  Housekeepers  say  of  a  domestic  who  has  been 
valuable,  "  She  had  lived  with  me  long  enough."  We  are 
tendencies,  or  rather  symptoms,  and  none  of  us  complete. 
We  touch  and  go,  and  sip  the  foam  of  many  lives.  Rota 
tion  is  the  law  of  nature.  When  nature  removes  a  great 
man,  people  explore  the  horizon  for  a  successor;  but  none 
comes,  and  none  will.  His  class  is  extinguished  with  him. 
In  some  other  and  quite  different  field,  the  next  man  will 
appear;  not  Jefferson,  not  Franklin,  but  now  a  great  sales 
man  ;  than  a  road-contractor ;  then  a  student  of  fishes ;  then 
a  buffalo-hunting  explorer,  or  a  semi-savage  Western  gen 
eral.  Thus  we  make  a  stand  against  our  rougher  masters ; 
but  against  the  best  there  is  a  finer  remedy.  The  power 


78  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

which  they  Communicate  is  not  theirs.  When  we  are  ex 
alted  by  ideas,  we"  do  not  owe  this  to  Plato,  but  to  the  idea, 
to  which,  also,  Plato  was  debtor. 

I  must  not  forget  that  we  have  a  special  debt  to  a  single 
class.  Life  is  a  scale  of  degrees.  Between  rank  and  rank 
of  our  great  men  are  wide  intervals.  Mankind  have,  in  all 
ages,  attached  themselves  to  a  few  persons,  who,  either 
by  the  quality  of  that  idea  they  embodied,  or  by  the  large 
ness  of  their  reception,  were  entitled  to  the  position  of 
leaders  and  law-givers.  These  teach  us  the  qualities  of 
primary  nature — admit  us  to  the  constitution  of  things. 
We  swim,  day  by  day,  on  a  river  of  delusions,  and  are 
effectually  amused  with  houses  and  towns  in  the  air,  of 
which  the  men  about  us  are  dupes.  But  life  is  a  sincerity. 
In  lucid  intervals  we  say,  "  Let  there  be  an  entrance 
opened  for  me  into  realties ;  I  have  worn  the  fool's  cap  too 
long."  We*  will  know  the  meaning  of  our  economies  and 
politics.  Give  us  the  cipher,  and,  if  persons  and  things  are 
scores  of  a  celestial  music,  let  us  read  off  the  strains.  We 
have  been  cheated  of  our  reason ;  yet  there  have  been  sane 
men  who  enjoyed  a  rich  and  related  existence.  What  they 
know  they  know  for  us.  With  each  new  mind,  a  new 
secret  of  nature  transpires ;  nor  can  the  Bible  be  closed  until 
the  last  great  man  is  born.  These  men  correct  the  delirium 
of  the  animal  spirits,  make  us  considerate,  and  engage  us 
to  new  aims  and  powers.  The  veneration  of  mankind  se 
lects  these  for  the  highest  place.  Witness  the  multitude  of 
statues,  pictures,  and  memorials  which  recall  their  genius  in 
every  city,  village,  house,  and  ship : 

"Ever  their   phantoms   arise   before  us, 
.  Our  loftier  brothers,  but  one  in  blood; 
At  bed  and  table  they  lord  it  o'er  us, 

With  looks  of  beauty,  and  words  of  good." 

How   to   illustrate   the   distinctive   benefit   of   ideas,   the 


USES  OF  GREAT  MEN  79 

service  rendered  by  those  who  introduce  moral  truths  into 
the  general  mind? — I  am  plagued,  in  all  my  living,  with  a 
perpetual  tariff  of  prices.  If  I  work  in  my  garden  and 
prune  an  apple-tree,  I  am  well  enough  entertained,  and 
could  continue  indefinitely  in  the  like  occupation.  But  it 
comes  to  mind  that  a  day  is  gone,  and  I  have  got  this 
precious  nothing  done.  I  go  to  Boston  or  New  York,  and 
run  up  and  down  on  my  affairs:  they  are  sped,  hut  so  is 
the  day.  I  am  vexed  by  the  recollection  of  this  price  I  have 
paid  for  a  trifling  advantage.  I  remember  the  peau  d'ane, 
on  which  whoso  sat  should  have  his  desire,  but  a  piece  of 
the  skin  was  gone  for  every  wish.  I  go  to  a  convention  of 
philanthropists.  Do  what  I  can,  I  cannot  keep  my  eyes  off 
the  clock.  But  if  there  should  appear  in  the  company  some 
gentle  soul  who  knows  little  of  persons  or  parties,  of  Caro 
lina  or  Cuba,  but  who  announces  a  law  that  disposes  these 
particulars,  and  so  certifies  me  of  the  equity  which  check 
mates  every  false  player,  bankrupts  every  self-seeker,  and 
apprises  me  of  my  independence  on  any  conditions  of  coun 
try,  or  time,  or  human  body,  that  man  liberates  me;  I 
forget  the  clock.  I  pass  out  of  the  sore  relation  to  persons. 
I  am  healed  of  my  hurts.  I  am  made  immortal  by  appre 
hending  my  possession  of  incorruptible  goods.  Here  is 
great  competition  of  rich  and  poor.  We  live  in  a  market, 
where  is  only  so  much  wheat,  or  wool,  or  land;  and  if  I 
have  so  much  more,  every  other  must  have  so  much  less. 
I  seem  to  have  no  good,  without  breach  of  good  manners. 
Nobody  is  glad  in  the  gladness  of  another,  and  our  system 
is  one  of  war,  of  an  injurious  superiority.  Every  child  of 
the  Saxon  race  is  educated  to  wish  to  be  first.  It  is  our 
system;  and  a  man  comes  to  measure  his  greatness  by  the 
regrets,  envies,  and  hatreds  of  his  competitors.  But  in 
these  new  fields  there  is  room :  here  are  no  self-esteems,  no 
exclusions. 


8o  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

I  admire  great  men  of  all  classes,  those  who  stand  for 
facts  and  for  thoughts ;  I  like  rough  and  smooth,  "  scourges 
of  God  "  and  "  darlings  of  the  human  race."  I  like  the 
first  Caesar;  and  Charles  V,  of  Spain;  and  Charles  XII, 
of  Sweden;  Richard  Plantagenet;  and  Bonaparte,  in 
France.  I  applaud  a  sufficient  man,  an  officer  equal  to  his 
office ;  captains,  ministers,  senators.  I  like  a  master  stand 
ing  firm  on  legs  of  iron,  well-born,  rich,  handsome,  eloquent, 
loaded  with  advantages,  drawing  all  men  by  fascination 
into  tributaries  and  supports  of  his  power.  Sword  and 
staff,  or  talents  sword-like  or  staff-like,  carry  on  the  work 
of  the  world.  But  I  find  him  greater  when  he  can  abolish 
himself,  and  all  heroes,  by  letting  in  this  element  of  reason, 
irrespective  of  persons ;  this  subtilizer,  and  irresistible  up 
ward  force,  into  our  thought,  destroying  individualism;  the 
power  so  great  that  the  potentate  is  nothing.  Then  he  is 
a  monarch  who  gives  a  constitution  to  his  people ;  a  pontiff 
who  preaches  the  equality  of  souls,  and  releases  his  servants 
from  their  barbarous  homages ;  an  emperor  who  can  spare 
his  empire. 

But  I  intended  to  specify,  with  a  little  minuteness,  two  or 
three  points  of  service.  Nature  never  spares  the  opium  or 
nepenthe;  but,  wherever  she  mars  her  creature  with  some 
deformity  or  defect,  lays  her  poppies  plentifully  on  the 
bruise,  and  the  sufferer  goes  joyfully  through  life,  ignorant 
of  the  ruin,  and  incapable  of  seeing  it,  though  all  the  world 
point  their  finger  at  it  every  day.  The  worthless  and  of 
fensive  members  of  society,  whose  existence  is  a  social 
pest,  invariably  think  themselves  the  most  ill-used  people 
alive,  and  never  get  over  their  astonishment  at  the  ingrati 
tude  and  selfishness  of  their  contemporaries.  Our  globe 
discovers  its  hidden  virtues,  not  only  in  heroes  and  arch 
angels,  but  in  gossips  and  nurses.  Is  it  not  a  rare  contriv 
ance  that  lodged  the  due  inertia  in  every  creature,  the 


USES  OF  GREAT  MEN  81 

conserving,  resisting  energy,  the  anger  at  being  waked  or 
changed?  Altogether  independent  of  the  intellectual  force 
in  each  is  the  pride  of  opinion,  the  security  that  we  are 
right.  Not  the  feeblest  grandame,  not  a  mowing  idiot, 
but  uses  what  spark  of  perception  and  faculty  is  left,  to 
chuckle  and  triumph  in  his  or  her  opinion  over  the  absurdi 
ties  of  all  the  rest.  Difference  from  me  is  the  measure  of 
absurdity.  Not  one  has  a  misgiving  of  being  wrong.  Was 
it  not  a  bright  thought  that  made  things  cohere  with  this 
bitumen,  fastest  of  cements?-  But,  in  the  midst  of  this 
chuckle  of  self-gratulation,  some  figure  goes  by  which 
Thersites  too  can  love  and  admire.  This  is  he  that  should 
marshal  us  the  way  we  were  going.  There  is  no  end  to  his 
aid.  Without  Plato,  we  should  almost  lose  our  faith  in 
the  possibility  of  a  reasonable  book.  We  seem  to  want  but 
one,  but  we  want  one.  We  love  to  associate  with  heroic 
persons,  since  our  receptivity  is  unlimited;  and,  with  the 
great,  our  thoughts  and  manners  easily  become  great.  We 
are  all  wise  in  capacity,  though  so  few  in  energy.  There 
needs  but  one  wise  man  in  a  company,  and  all  are  wise,  so 
rapid  is  the  contagion. 

Great  men  are  thus  a  collyrium  to  clear  our  eyes  from 
egotism,  and  enable  us  to  see  other  people  and  their  works. 
But  there  are  vices  and  follies  incident  to  whole  populations 
and  ages.  Men  resemble  their  contemporaries,  even  more 
than  their  progenitors.  It  is  observed  in  old  couples,  or 
in  persons  who  have  been  housemates  for  a  course  of  years, 
that  they  grow  like;  and  if  they  should  live  long  enough, 
we  should  not  be  able  to  know  them  apart.  Nature  abhors 
these  complaisances,  which  threaten  to  melt  the  world  into 
a  lump,  and  hastens  to  break  up  such  maudlin  agglutina 
tions.  The  like  assimilation  goes  on  between  men  of  one 
town,  of  one  sect,  of  one  political  party;  and  the  ideas  of 
the  time  are  in  the  air,  and  infect  all  who  breathe  it. 


82  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

Viewed  from  any  high  point,  this  city  of  New  York,  yonder 
city  of  London,  the  western  civilization,  would  seem  a 
bundle  of  insanities.  We  keep  each  other  in  countenance, 
and  exasperate  by  emulation  the  frenzy  of  the  time.  The 
shield  against  the  stingings  of  conscience  is  the  universal 
practice,  or  our  contemporaries.  Again :  it  is  very  easy 
to  be  as  wise  and  good  as  your  companions.  We  learn  of 
our  contemporaries  what  they  know,  without  effort,  arid 
almost  through  the  pores  of  the  skin.  We  catch  it  by 
sympathy,  or  as  a  wife  arrives  at  the  intellectual  and  moral 
elevations  of  her  husband.  But  we  stop  where  they  stop. 
Very  hardly  can  we  take  another  step.  The  great,  or  such 
as  hold  of  nature,  and  transcend  fashions,  by  their  fidelity 
to  universal  ideas,  are  saviors  from  these  federal  errors, 
and  defend  us  from  our  contemporaries.  They  arc  the 
exceptions  which  we  want,  where  all  grows  alike.  A 
foreign  greatness  is  the  antidote  for  cabalism. 

Thus  we  feed  on  genius,  and  refresh  ourselves  from  too 
much  conversation  with  our  mates,  and  exult  in  the  depth 
of  nature  in  that  direction  in  which  he  leads  us.  What 
indemnification  is  one  great  man  for  populations  of  pygmies ! 
Every  mother  wishes  one  son  a  genius,  though  all  the  rest 
should  be  mediocre.  But  a  new  danger  appears  in  the  ex 
cess  of  influence  of  the  great  man.  His  attractions  warp 
us  from  our  place.  We  have  become  underlings  and  in 
tellectual  suicides.  Ah!  yonder  in  the  horizon  is  our  help: 
other  great  men,  new  qualities,  counterweights  and  checks 
on  each  other.  We  cloy  of  the  honey  of  each  peculiar 
greatness.  Every  hero  becomes  a  bore  at  last.  Perhaps 
Voltaire  was  not  bad-hearted,  yet  he  said  of  the  good 
Jesus,  even,  "  I  pray  you,  let  me  never  hear  that  man's 
name  again."  They  cry  up  the  virtues  of  George  Washing 
ton — "  Damn  George  Washington !  "  is  the  poor  Jacobin's 
whole  speech  and  confutation.  But  it  is  human  nature's 


USES  OF  GREAT  MEN  83 

indispensable  defense.  The  centripetence  augments  the 
centrifugence.  We  balance  one  man  with  his  opposite, 
and  the  health  of  the  State  depends  on  the  see-saw. 

There  is,  however,  a  speedy  limit  to  the  use  of  heroes. 
Every  genius  is  defended  from  approach  by  quantities  of 
unavailableness.  They  are  very  attractive,  and  seem  at  a 
distance  our  own ;  but  we  are  hindered  on  all  sides  from 
approach.  The  more  we  are  drawn,  the  more  we  are  re 
pelled.  There  is  something  not  solid  in  the  good  that  is 
done  for  us.  The  best  discovery  the  discoverer  makes  for 
himself.  It  has  something  unreal  for  his  companion,  until 
he  too  has  substantiated  it.  It  seems  as  if  the  Deity  dressed 
each  soul  which  he  sends  into  nature  in  certain  virtues  and 
powers  not  communicable  to  other  men,  and,  sending  it  to 
perform  one  more  turn  through  the  circle  of  beings,  wrote, 
"  Not  transferable,"  and  "  Good  for  this  trip  only,"  on 
these  garments  of  the  soul.  There  is  somewhat  deceptive 
about  the  intercourse  of  minds.  The  boundaries  are  in 
visible,  but  they  are  never  crossed.  There  is  such  good 
will  to  impart,  and  such  good  will  to  receive,  that  each 
threatens  to  become  the  other;  but  the  law  of  individuality 
collects  its  secret  strength :  you  are  you,  and  I  am  I,  and 
so  we  remain. 

For  Nature  wishes  everything  to  remain  itself;  and 
whilst  every  individual  strives  to  grow  and  exclude,  and  to 
exclude  and  grow,  to  the  extremities  of  the  universe,  and 
to  impose  the  law  of  its  being  on  every  other  creature, 
Nature  steadily  aims  to  protect  each  against  every  other. 
Each  is  self-defended.  Nothing  is  more  marked  than  the 
power  by  which  individuals  are  guarded  from  individuals, 
in  a  world  where  every  benefactor  becomes  so  easily  a 
malefactor,  only  by  continuation  of  his  activity  into  places 
where  it  is  not  due ;  where  children  seem  so  much  at  the 
mercy  of  their  foolish  parents,  and  where  almost  all  men 


84  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

are  too  social  and  interfering.  We  rightly  speak  of  the 
guardian  angels  of  children.  How  superior  in  their  security 
from  infusions  of  evil  persons,  from  vulgarity  and  second 
thought !  They  shed  their  own  abundant  beauty  on  the 
objects  they  behold.  Therefore,  they  are  not  at  the  mercy 
of  such  poor  educators  as  we  adults.  If  we  huff  and  chide 
them,  they  soon  come  not  to  mind  it,  and  get  a  self-reliance ; 
and  if  we  indulge  them  to  folly,  they  learn  the  limitation 
elsewhere. 

We  need  not  fear  excessive  influence.  A  more  generous 
trust  is  permitted.  Serve  the  great.  Stick  at  no  humilia 
tion.  Grudge  no  office  thou  canst  render.  Be  the  limb 
of  their  body,  the  breath  of  their  mouth.  Compromise  thy 
egotism.  Who  cares  for  that,  so  thou  gain  aught  wider 
and  nobler?  Never  mind  the  taunt  of  Boswellism :  the 
devotion  may  easily  be  greater  than  the  wretched  pride 
which  is  guarding  its  own  skirts.  Be  another — not  thy 
self,  but  a  Platonist;  not  a  soul,  but  a  Christian;  not  a 
naturalist,  but  a  Cartesian ;  not  a  poet,  but  a  Shaksperian. 
In  vain;  the  wheels  of  tendency  will  not  stop,  nor  will  all 
the  forces  of  inertia,  fear,  or  of  love  itself,  hold  thee  there. 
On,  and  forever  onward !  The  microscope  observes  a 
monad  or  wheel-insect  among  the  infusories  circulating  in 
water.  Presently  a  dot  appears  on  the  animal,  which  en 
larges  to  a  slit,  and  it  becomes  two  perfect  animals.  The 
ever-proceeding  detachment  appears  not  less  in  all  thought, 
and  in  society.  Children  think  they  cannot  live  without 
their  parents.  But  long  before  they  are  aware  of  it,  the 
black  dot  has  appeared,  and  the  detachment  taken  place. 
Any  accident  will  now  reveal  to  them  their  independence. 

But  great  men — the  word  is  injurious.  Is  there  caste? 
Is  there  fate?  What  becomes  of  the  promise  to  virtue? 
The  thoughtful  youth  laments  the  superfcetation  of  nature. 
"  Generous  and  handsome,"  he  says,  "  is  your  hero ;  but  look 


USES  OF  GREAT  MEN  85 

at  yonder  poor  Paddy,  whose  country  is  his  wheelbarrow; 
look  at  his  whole  nation  of  Paddies."  Why  are  the  masses, 
from  the  dawn  of  history  down,  food  for  knives  and  pow 
der?  The  idea  dignifies  a  few  leaders,  who  have  sentiment, 
opinion,  love,  self-devotion ;  and  they  make  war  and  death 
sacred ;  but  what  for  the  wretches  whom  they  hire  and  kill  ? 
The  cheapness  of  man  is  every  day's  tragedy.  It  is  as  real 
a  loss  that  others  should  be  low  as  that  we  should  be  low; 
for  we  must  have  society. 

Is  it  a  reply  to  these  suggestions,  to  say  society  is  a 
Pestalozzian  school ;  all  are  teachers  and  pupils  in  turn. 
We  are  equally  served  by  receiving  and  by  imparting. 
Men  who  know  the  same  things  are  not  long  the  best  com 
pany  for  each  other.  But  bring  to  each  an  intelligent  per 
son  of  another  experience,  and  it  is  as  if  you  let  off  Water 
from  a  lake,  by  cutting  a  lower  basin.  It  seems  a  me 
chanical  advantage,  and  great  benefit  it  is  to  each  speaker, 
as  he  can  now  paint  out  his  thought  to  himself.  We  pass 
very  fast,  in  our  personal  moods,  from  dignity  to  depend 
ence.  And  if  any  appear  never  to  assume  the  chair,  but 
always  to  stand  and  serve,  it  is  because  we  do  not  see  the 
company  in  a  sufficiently  long  period  for  the  whole  rota 
tion  of  parts  to  come  about.  As  to  what  we  call  the  masses 
and  common  men — there  are  no  common  men.  All  men 
are  at  last  of  a  size;  and  true  art  is  only  possible  on  the 
conviction  that  every  talent  has  its  apotheosis  somewhere. 
Fair  play,  and  an  open  field,  and  freshest  laurels  to  all  who 
have  won  them !  But  heaven  reserves  an  equal  scope  for 
every  creature.  Each  is  uneasy  until  he  has  produced  his 
private  ray  unto  the  concave  sphere,  and  beheld  his  talent 
also  in  its  last  nobility  and  exaltation. 

The  heroes  of  the  hour  are  relatively  great — of  a  faster 
growth;  or  they  are  such,  in  whom,  at  the  moment  of  suc 
cess,  a  quality  is  ripe  which  is  then  in  request.  Other  days 


86  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

will  demand  other  qualities.  Some  rays  escape  the  com 
mon  observer,  and  want  a  finely  adapted  eye.  Ask  the 
great  man  if  there  be  none  greater.  His  companions  are; 
and  not  the  less  great,  but  the  more,  that  society  cannot 
see  them.  Nature  never  sends  a  great  man  into  the  planet 
without  confiding  the  secret  to  another  soul. 

One  gracious  fact  emerges  from  these  studies — that  there 
is  true  ascension  in  our  love.  The  reputations  of  the  nine 
teenth  century  will  one  day  be  quoted  to  prove  its  bar 
barism.  The  genius  of  humanity  is  the  real  subject  whose 
biography  is  written  in  our  annals.  We  must  infer  much, 
and  supply  many  chasms  in  the  record.  The  history  of  the 
universe  is  symptomatic,  and  life  is  mnemonical.  No 
man,  in  all  the  procession  of  famous  men,  is  reason  or 
illumination,  or  that  essence  we  were  looking  for,  but  is 
an  exhibition,  in  some  quarter,  of  new  possibilities.  Could 
we  one  day  complete  the  immense  figure  which  these  fla 
grant  points  compose !  The  study  of  many  individuals  leads 
us  to  an  elemental  region  wherein  the  individual  is  lost,  or 
wherein  all  touch  by  their  summits.  Thought  and  feeling, 
that  break  out  there,  cannot  be  impounded  by  any  fence  of 
personality.  This  is  the  key  to  the  power  of  the  greatest 
men — their  spirit  diffuses  itself.  A  new  quality  of  mind 
travels  by  night  and  by  day,  in  concentric  circles  from  its 
origin,  and  publishes  itself  by  unknown  methods ;  the  union 
of  all  minds  appears  intimate;  what  gets  admission  to  one 
cannot  be  kept  out  of  any  other;  the  smallest  acquisition  of 
truth  or  of  energy,  in  any  quarter,  is  so  much  good  to  the 
commonwealth  of  souls.  If  the  disparities  of  talent  and  posi 
tion  vanish  when  the  individuals  are  seen  in  the  duration 
which  is  necessary  to  complete  the  career  of  each,  even  more 
swiftly  the  seeming  injustice  disappears  when  we  ascend 
to  the  central  identity  of  all  the  individuals,  and  know  that 
they  are  made  of  the  substance  which  ordaineth  and  doeth. 


USES  OF  GREAT  MEN  87 

The  genius  of  humanity  is  the  right  point  of  view  of 
history.  The  qualities  abide;  the  men  who  exhibit  them 
have  now  more,  now  less,  and  pass  away;  the  qualities 
remain  on  another  brow.  No  experience  is  more  familiar. 
Once  you  saw  phoenixes :  they  are  gone ;  the  world  is  not 
therefore  disenchanted.  The  vessels  on  which  you  read 
sacred  emblems  turn  out  to  be  common  pottery;  but  the 
sense  of  the  pictures  is  sacred,  and  you  may  still  read  them 
transferred  to  the  walls  of  the  world.  For  a  time  our 
teachers  serve  us  personally,  as  meters  or  milestones  of 
progress.  Once  they  were  angels  of  knowledge,  and  their 
figures  touched  the  sky.  Then  we  drew  near,  saw  their 
means,  culture,  and  limits ;  and  they  yielded  their  place  to 
other  geniuses.  Happy,  if  a  few  names  remain  so  high 
that  we  have  not  been  able  to  read  them  nearer,  and  age 
and  comparison  have  not  robbed  them  of  a  ray.  But,  at 
last,  we  shall  cease  to  look  in  men  for  completeness,  and 
shall  content  ourselves  with  their  social  and  delegated 
quality.  All  that  respects  the  individual  is  temporary  and 
prospective,  like  the  individual  himself,  who  is  ascending 
out  of  his  limits  into  a  catholic  existence.  We  have  never 
come  at  the  true  and  best  benefit  of  any  genius,  so  long  as 
we  believe  him  an  original  force.  In  the  moment  when  he 
ceases  to  help  us  as  a  cause,  he  begins  to  help  us  more  as  an 
effect.  Then  he  appears  as  an  exponent  of  a  vaster  mind 
and  will.  The  opaque  self  becomes  transparent  with  the 
light  of  the  First  Cause. 

Yet,  within  the  limits  of  human  education  and  agency, 
we  may  say  great  men  exist  that  there  may  be  greater  men. 
The  destiny  of  organized  nature  is  amelioration,  and  who 
can  tell  its  limits?  It  is  for  man  to  tame  the  chaos;  on 
every  side,  whilst  he  lives,  to  scatter  the  seeds  of  science 
and  of  song,  that  climate,  corn,  animals,  men,  may  be  milder, 
and  the  germs  of  love  and  benefit  may  be  multiplied. 


BUDS  AND  BIRD-VOICES 
NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

BALMY  Spring — weeks  later  than  we  expected,  and 
months  later  than  we  longed  for  her — comes  at  last  to 
revive  the  moss  on  the  roof  and  walls  of  our  old  mansion. 
She  peeps  brightly  into  my  study  window,  inviting  me  to 
throw  it  open  and  create  a  summer  atmosphere  by  the 
intermixture  of  her  genial  breath  with  the  black  and  cheer 
less  comfort  of  the  stove.  As  the  casement  ascends,  forth 
into  infinite  space  fly  the  innumerable  forms  of  thought 
or  fancy  that  have  kept  me  company  in  the  retirement  of 
this  little  chamber  during  the  sluggish  lapse  of  wintry 
weather — visions  gay,  grotesque  and  sad,  pictures  of  real 
life  tinted  with  nature's  homely  gray  and  russet,  scenes  in 
dreamland  bedizened  with  rainbow-hues  which  faded  be 
fore  they  were  well  laid  on.  All  these  may  vanish  now, 
and  leave  me  to  mold  a  fresh  existence  out  of  sunshine. 
Brooding  Meditation  may  flap  her  dusky  wings  and  take  her 
owl-like  flight,  blinking  amid  the  cheerfulness  of  noontide. 
Such  companions  befit  the  season  of  frosted  window-panes 
and  crackling  fires,  when  the  blast  howls  through  the 
black-ash  trees  of  our  avenue,  and  the  drifting  snow 
storm  chokes  up  the  wood  paths  and  fills  the  highway 
from  stone  wall  to  stone  wall.  In  the  spring  and  sum 
mer  time  all  somber  thoughts  should  follow  the  winter 
northward  with  the  somber  and  thoughtful  crows.  The 
old  paradisiacal  economy  of  life  is  again  in  force :  we 
live,  not  to  think  nor  to  labor,  but  for  the  simple  end  of 


BUDS  AND  BIRD- VOICES  89 

being  happy ;  nothing  for  the  present  hour  is  worthy  of 
man's  infinite  capacity  save  to  imbibe  the  warm  smile  of 
heaven  and  sympathize  with  the  reviving  earth. 

The  present  Spring  comes  onward  with  fleeter  foot 
steps  because  Winter  lingered  so  unconscionably  long  that 
with  her  best  diligence  she  can  hardly  retrieve  half  the  al 
lotted  period  of  her  reign.  It  is  but  a  fortnight  since  I 
stood  on  the  brink  of  our  swollen  river  and  beheld  the 
accumulated  ice  of  four  frozen  months  go  down  the  stream. 
Except  in  streaks  here  and  there  upon  the  hillsides,  the 
whole  visible  universe  was  then  covered  with  deep  snow 
the  nethermost  layer  of  which  had  been  deposited  by  an 
early  December  storm.  It  was  a  sight  to  make  the  be 
holder  torpid,  in  the  impossibility  of  imagining  how  this 
vast  white  napkin  was  to  be  removed  from  the  face  of  the 
corpse-like  world  in  less  time  than  had  been  required  to 
spread  it  there.  But  who  can  estimate  the  power  of  gentle 
influences,  whether  amid  material  desolation  or  the  moral 
winter  of  man's  heart?  There  have  been  no  tempestuous 
rains — even  no  sultry  days — but  a  constant  breath  of  south 
ern  winds,  with  now  a  day  of  kindly  sunshine,  and  now  a 
no  less  kindly  mist,  or  a  soft  descent  of  showers,  in  which 
a  smile  and  a  blessing  seemed  to  have  been  steeped.  The 
snow  has  vanished  as  if  by  magic ;  whatever  heaps  may 
be  hidden  in  the  woods  and  deep  gorges  of  the  hills,  only 
two  solitary  specks  remain  in  the  landscape,  and  those  I 
shall  almost  regret  to  miss  when  to-morrow  I  look  for 
them  in  vain.  Never  before,  methinks,  has  spring  pressed 
so  closely  on  the  footsteps  of  retreating  winter.  Along  the 
roadside  the  green  blades  of  grass  have  sprouted  on  the 
very  edge  of  the  snowdrifts.  The  pastures  and  mowing 
fields  have  not  yet  assumed  a  general  aspect  of  verdure, 
but  neither  have  they  the  cheerless  brown  tint  which  they 
wear  in  later  autumn,  when  vegetation  has  entirely  ceased; 


90  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

there  is  now  a  faint  shadow  of  life,  gradually  brightening 
into  the  warm  reality.  Some  tracts  in  a  happy  exposure — 
as,  for  instance,  yonder  southwestern  slope  of  an  orchard, 
in  front  of  that  old  red  farmhouse  beyond  the  river — such 
patches  of  land  already  wear  a  beautiful  and  tender  green 
to  which  no  future  luxuriance  can  add  a  charm.  It  looks 
unreal — a  prophecy,  a  hope,  a  transitory  effect  of  some 
peculiar  light,  which  will  vanish  with  the  slightest  motion 
of  the  eye.  But  beauty  is  never  a  delusion ;  not  these 
verdant  tracts  but  the  dark  and  barren  landscape  all  around 
them  is  a  shadow  and  a  dream.  Each  moment  wins  some 
portion  of  the  earth  from  death  to  life;  a  sudden  gleam 
of  verdure  brightens  along  the  sunny  slope  of  a  bank  which 
an  instant  ago  was  brown  and  bare.  You  look  again,  and, 
behold  an  apparition  of  green  grass! 

The  trees  in  our  orchard  and  elsewhere  are  as  yet  naked, 
but  already  appear  full  of  life  and  vegetable  blood.  It 
seems  as  if  by  one  magic  touch  they  might  instantaneously 
burst  into  full  foliage,  and  that  the  wind  which  now  sighs 
through  their  naked  branches  might  make  sudden  music 
amid  innumerable  leaves.  The  moss-grown  willow  tree 
which  for  forty  years  past  has  overshadowed  these  western 
windows  will  be  among  the  first  to  put  on  its  green  attire. 
There  are  some  objections  to  the  willow:  it  is  not  a  dry 
and  cleanly  tree,  and  impresses  the  beholder  with  an  asso 
ciation  of  sliminess.  No  trees,  I  think,  are  perfectly  agree 
able  as  companions  unless  they  have  glossy  leaves,  dry  bark, 
and  a  firm  and  hard  texture  of  trunk  and  branches.  But 
the  willow  is  almost  the  earliest  to  gladden  us  with  the 
promise  and  reality  of  beauty  in  its  graceful  and  delicate 
foliage,  and  the  last  to  scatter  its  yellow,  yet  scarcely- 
withered,  leaves  upon  the  ground.  All  through  the  win 
ter,  too,  its  yellow  twigs  give  it  a  sunny  aspect  which  is 
not  without  a  cheering  influence  even  in  the  grayest  and 


BUDS  AND  BIRD- VOICES  91 

gloomiest  day.  Beneath  a  clouded  sky  it  faithfully  re 
members  the  sunshine.  Our  old  house  would  lose  a  charm 
were  the  willow  to  be  cut  down,  with  its  golden  crown  over 
the  snow-covered  roof,  and  its  heap  of  summer  verdure. 

The  lilac  shrubs  under  my  study  windows  are  likewise 
almost  in  leaf ;  in  two  or  three  days  more  I  may  put  forth 
my  hand  and  pluck  the  topmost  bough  in  its  freshest  green. 
These  lilacs  are  very  aged,  and  have  lost  the  luxuriant 
foliage  of  their  prime.  The  heart  or  the  judgment  or  the 
moral  sense  or  the  taste  is  dissatisfied  with  their  present 
aspect.  Old  age  is  not  venerable  when  it  embodies  itself 
in  lilacs,  rose-bushes,  or  any  other  ornamental  shrubs;  it 
seems  as  if  such  plants,  as  they  grow  only  for  beauty, 
ought  to  flourish  only  in  immortal  youth — or,  at  least,  to 
die  before  their  sad  decrepitude.  Trees  of  beauty  are  trees 
of  paradise,  and  therefore  not  subject  to  decay  by  their 
original  nature,  though  they  have  lost  that  precious  birth 
right  by  being  transplanted  to  an  earthly  soil.  There  is  a 
kind  of  ludicrous  unfitness  in  the  idea  o"f  a  time-stricken 
and  grandfatherly  lilac-bush.  The  analogy  holds  good  in 
human  life.  Persons  who  can  only  be  graceful  and  orna 
mental — who  can  give  the  world  nothing  but  flowers — 
should  die  young,  and  never  be  seen  with  gray  hair  and 
wrinkles,  any  more  than  the  flower-shrubs  with  mossy  bark 
and  blighted  foliage,  like  the  lilacs  under  my  window.  Not 
that  beauty  is  worthy  of  less  than  immortality.  No;  the 
beautiful  should  live  forever,  and  thence,  perhaps,  the  sense 
of  impropriety  when  we  see  it  triumphed  over  by  time. 
Apple  trees,  on  the  other  hand,  grow  old  without  reproach. 
Let  them  live  as  long  as  they  may,  and  contort  themselves 
into  whatever  perversity  of  shape  they  please,  and  deck 
their  withered  limbs  with  a  springtime  gaudiness  of  pink- 
blossoms,  still  they  are  respectable,  even  if  they  afford  us 
only  an  apple  or  two  in  a  season.  Those  few  apples — or, 


92  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

at  all  events,  the  remembrance  of  apples  in  bygone  years — 
are  the  atonement  which  utilitarianism  inexorably  demands 
for  the  privilege  of  lengthened  life.  Human  flower  shrubs, 
if  they  will  grow  old  on  earth,  should,  besides  their  lovely 
blossoms,  bear  some  kind  of  fruit  that  will  satisfy  earthly  ap 
petites,  else  neither  man  nor  the  decorum  of  nature  will 
deem  it  fit  that  the  moss  should  gather  on  them. 

One  of  the  first  things  that  strikes  the  attention  when  the 
white  sheet  of  winter  is  withdrawn  is  the  neglect  and  disar 
ray  that  lay  hidden  beneath  it.  Nature  is  not  cleanly, 
according  to  our  prejudices.  The  beauty  of  preceding 
years,  now  transformed  to  brown  and  blighted  deformity, 
obstructs  the  brightening  loveliness  of  the  present  hour. 
Our  avenue  is  strewn  with  the  whole  crop  of  autumn's 
withered  leaves.  There  are  quantities  of  decayed  branches 
which  one  tempest  after  another  has  flung  down,  black  and 
rotten,  and  one  or  two  with  the  ruin  of  a  bird's  nest  cling 
ing  to  them.  In  the  garden  are  the  dried  bean-vines,  the 
brown  stalks  of  the  asparagus-bed,  and  melancholy  old 
cabbages  which  were  frozen  in.to  the  soil  before  their  un 
thrifty  cultivator  could  find  time  to  gather  them.  How 
invariable  throughout  all  the  forms  of  life  do  we  find  these 
intermingled  memorials  of  death !  On  the  soil  of  thought 
and  in  the  garden  of  the  heart,  as  well  as  in  the  sensual 
world,  lie  withered  leaves — the  ideas  and  feelings  that  we 
have  done  with.  There  is  no  wind  strong  enough  to  sweep 
them  away;  infinite  space  will  not  garner  them  from  our 
sight.  What  mean  they?  Why  may  we  not  be  permitted 
to  live  and  enjoy  as  if  this  were  the  first  life  and  our  own 
the  primal  enjoyment,  instead  of  treading  always  on  these 
dry  bones  and  mouldering  relics  from  the  aged  accumula 
tion  of  which  springs  all  that  now  appears  so  young  and 
new  ?  Sweet  must  have  been  the  spring-time  of  Eden,  when 
no  earlier  year  had  strewn  its  decay  upon  the  virgin  turf, 


BUDS  AND  BIRD- VOICES  93 

and  no  former  experience  had  ripened  into  summer  and 
faded  into  autumn  in  the  hearts  of  its  inhabitants !  That 
was  a  world  worth  living  in. — Oh,  thou  murmurer,  it  is  out 
of  the  very  wantonness  of  such  a  life  that  thou  feignest 
these  idle  lamentations.  There  is  no  decay.  Each  human 
soul  is  the  first  created  inhabitant  of  its  own  Eden. — We 
dwell  in  an  old  moss-covered  mansion  and  tread  in  the 
worn  footprints  of  the  past  and  have  a  gray  clergyman's 
ghost  for  our  daily  and  nightly  inmate,  yet  all  these  out 
ward  circumstances  are  made  less  than  visionary  by  the 
renewing  power  of  the  spirit.  Should  the  spirit  ever  lose 
this  power — should  the  withered  leaves  and  the  rotten 
branches  and  the  moss-covered  house  and  the  ghost  of  the 
gray  past  ever  become  its  realities,  and  the  verdure  and 
the  freshness  merely  its  faint  dream — then  let  it  pray  to  be 
released  from  earth.  It  will  need  the  air  of  heaven  to 
revive  its  pristine  energies. 

What  an  unlocked  for  flight  was  this  from  our  shadowy 
avenue  of  black-ash  and  balm-of-gilead  trees  into  the  in 
finite  !  Now  we  have  our  feet  again  upon  the  turf.  No 
where  does  the  grass  spring  up  so  industriously  as  in  this 
homely  yard,  along  the  base  of  the  stone  wall  and  in  the 
sheltered  nooks  of  the  buildings,  and  especially  around  the 
southern  door-step — a  locality  which  seems  particularly 
favorable  to  its  growth,  for  it  is  already  tall  enough  to 
bend  over  and  wave  in  the  wind.  I  observe  that  several 
weeds — and,  most  frequently,  a  plant  that  stains  the  fingers 
with  its  yellow  juice — have  survived  and  retained  their 
freshness  and  sap  throughout  the  winter.  One  knows  not 
how  they  have  deserved  such  an  exception  from  the  com 
mon  lot  of  their  race.  They  are  now  the  patriarchs  of  the 
departed  year,  and  may  preach  mortality  to  the  present 
generation  of  flowers  and  weeds. 

Among  the  delights  of  spring,  how  is  it  possible  to  forget 


94  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

the  birds  ?  Even  the  crows  were  welcome,  as  the  sable  har 
bingers  of  a  brighter  and  livelier  race.  They  visited  us  be 
fore  the  snow  was  off,  but  seem  mostly  to  have  betaken 
themselves  to  remote  depths  of  the  woods,  which  they  haunt 
all  summer  long.  Many  a  time  shall  I  disturb  them  there, 
and  feel  as  if  I  had  intruded  among  a  company  of  silent 
worshipers  as  they  sit  in  Sabbath  stillness  among  the  tree- 
tops.  Their  voices,  when  they  speak,  are  in  admirable  ac 
cordance  with  the  tranquil  solitude  of  a  summer  afternoon, 
and,  resounding  so  far  above  the  head,  their  loud  clamor 
increases  the  religious  quiet  of  the  scene  instead  of  breaking 
it.  A  crow,  however,  has  no  real  pretensions  to  religion, 
in  spite  of  his  gravity  of  mien  and  black  attire;  he  is  cer 
tainly  a  thief,  and  probably  an  infidel.  The  gulls  are  far 
more  respectable,  in  a  moral  point  of  view.  These  denizens 
of  sea-beaten  rocks  and  haunters  of  the  lonely  beach  come 
up  our  inland  river  at  this  season,  and  soar  high  overhead, 
flapping  their  broad  wings  in  the  upper  sunshine.  They  are 
among  the  most  picturesque  of  birds,  because  they  so  float 
and  rest  upon  the  air  as  to  become  almost  stationary  parts 
of  the  landscape.  The  imagination  has  time  to  grow  ac 
quainted  with  them ;  they  have  not  flitted  away  in  a  moment. 
You  go  up  among  the  clouds  and  greet  these  lofty-flighted 
gulls,  and  repose  confidently  with  them  upon  the  sustaining 
atmosphere.  Ducks  have  their  haunts  along  the  solitary 
places  of  the  river,  and  alight  in  flocks  upon  the  broad 
bosom  of  the  overflowed  meadows.  Their  flight  is  too  rapid 
and  determined  for  the  eye  to  catch  enjoyment  from  it, 
although  it  never  fails  to  stir  up  the  heart  with  the  sports 
man's  ineradicable  instinct.  They  have  now  gone  farther 
northward,  but  will  visit  us  again  in  autumn. 

The  smaller  birds — the  little  songsters  of  the  woods,  and 
those  that  haunt  man's  dwellings  and  claim  human  friend 
ship  by  building  their  nests  under  the  sheltering  eaves  or 


BUDS  AND  BIRD- VOICES  95 

among  the  orchard  trees — these  require  a  touch  more  deli 
cate  and  a  gentler  heart  than  mine  to  do  them  justice. 
Their  outburst  of  melody  is  like  a  brook  let  loose  from 
wintry  chains.  We  need  not  deem  it  a  too  high  and  solemn 
word  to  call  it  a  hymn  of  praise  to  the  Creator,  since  Nature, 
who  pictures  the  reviving  year  in  so  many  sights  of  beauty, 
has  expressed  the  sentiment  of  renewed  life  in  no  other 
sound  save  the  notes  of  these  blessed  birds.  Their  music, 
however,  just  now  seems  to  be  incidental,  and  not  the  result 
of  a  set  purpose.  They  are  discussing  the  economy  of  life 
and  love  and  the  site  and  architecture  of  their  summer 
residences,  and  have  no  time  to  sit  on  a  twig  and  pour 
forth  solemn  hymns  or  overtures,  operas,  symphonies  and 
waltzes.  Anxious  questions  are  asked,  grave  subjects  are 
settled  in  quick  and  animated  debate,  and  only  by  occasional 
accident,  as  from  pure  ecstasy,  does  a  rich  warble  roll  its 
tiny  waves  of  golden  sound  through  the  atmosphere.  Their 
little  bodies  are  as  busy  as  their  voices ;  .they  are  in  a  con 
stant  flutter  and  restlessness.  Even  when  two  or  three 
retreat  to  a  tree-top  to  hold  council,  they  wag  their  tails  and 
heads  all  the  time  with  the  irrepressible  activity  of  their 
nature,  which  perhaps  renders  their  brief  span  of  life  in 
reality  as  long  as  the  patriarchal  age  of  sluggish  man.  The 
blackbirds — three  species  of  which  consort  together — are 
the  noisiest  of  all  our  feathered  citizens.  Great  companies 
of  them — more  than  the  famous  "  four-and-twenty  "  whom 
Mother  Goose  has  immortalized — congregate  in  contiguous 
tree-tops  and  vociferate  with  all  the  clamor  and  confusion 
of  a  turbulent  political  meeting.  Politics,  certainly,  must 
be  the  occasion  of  such  tumultuous  debates,  but  still,  unlike 
all  other  politicians,  they  instill  melody  into  their  individual 
utterances  and  produce  harmony  as  a  general  effect.  Of 
all  bird-voices,  none  are  more  sweet  and  cheerful  to  my  ear 
than  those  of  swallows  in  the  dim,  sun-streaked  interior  of 


96  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

a  lofty  barn ;  they  address  the  heart  with  even  a  closer 
sympathy  than  Robin  Redbreast.  But,  indeed,  all  these 
winged  people  that  dwell  in  the  vicinity  of  homesteads  seem 
to  partake  of  human  nature  and  possess  the  germ,  if  not 
the  development,  of  immortal  souls.  We  hear  them  saying 
their  melodious  prayers  at  morning's  blush  and  eventide. 
A  little  while  ago,  in  the  deep  of  night,  there  came  the 
lively  thrill  of  a  bird's  note  from  a  neighboring  tree — a  real 
song  such  as  greets  the  purple  dawn  or  mingles  with  the 
yellow  sunshine.  What  could  the  little  bird  mean  by  pour 
ing  it  forth  at  midnight?  Probably  the  music  gushed  out 
of  the  midst  of  a  dream  in  which  he  fancied  himself  in 
paradise  with  his  mate,  but  suddenly  awoke  on  a  cold,  leaf 
less  bough  with  a  New  England  mist  penetrating  through 
his  feathers.  That  was  a  sad  exchange  of  imagination  for 
reality. 

Insects  are  among  the  earliest  births  of  spring.  Multi 
tudes,  of  I  know  not  what  species,  appeared  long  ago  on  the 
surface  of  the  snow.  Clouds  of  them  almost  too  minute 
for  sight  hover  in  a  beam  of  sunshine,  and  vanish  as  if 
annihilated  when  they  pass  into  the  shade.  A  mosquito 
has  already  been  heard  to  sound  the  small  horror  of  his 
bugle-horn.  Wasps  infest  the  sunny  windows  of  the  house. 
A  bee  entered  one  of  the  chambers  with  a  prophecy  of 
flowers.  Rare  butterflies  came  before  the  snow  was  off, 
flaunting  in  the  chill  breeze,  and  looking  forlorn  and  all 
astray  in  spite  of  the  magnificence  of  their  dark  velvet 
cloaks  with  golden  borders. 

The  fields  and  wood-paths  have  as  yet  few  charms  to 
entice  the  wanderer.  In  a  walk  the  other  day  I  found  no 
violets  nor  anemones,  nor  anything  in  the  likeness  of  a 
flower.  It  was  worth  while,  however,  to  ascend  our  op 
posite  hill  for  the  sake  of  gaining  a  general  idea  of  the 
•advance  of  spring,  which  I  had  hitherto  been  studying  in  its 


BUDS  AND  BIRD- VOICES  97 

minute  developments.  The  river  lay  round  me  in  a  semi 
circle,  overflowing  all  the  meadows  which  give  it  its  Indian 
name,  and  offering  a  noble  breadth  to  sparkle  in  the  sun 
beams.  Along  the  hither  shore  a  row  of  trees  stood  up  to 
their  knees  in  water,  and  afar  off,  on  the  surface  of  the 
stream,  tufts  of  bushes  thrust  up  their  heads,  as  it  were,  to 
breathe.  The  most  striking  objects  were  great  solitary 
trees  here  and  there  with  a  mile-wide  waste  of  water  all 
around  them.  The  curtailment  of  the  trunk  by  its  immer 
sion  in  the  river  quite  destroys  the  fair  proportions  of  the 
tree,  and  thus  makes  us  sensible  of  a  regularity  and  pro 
priety  in  the  usual  forms  of  nature.  The  flood  of  the 
present  season,  though  it  never  amounts  to  a  freshet  on  our 
quiet  stream,  has  encroached  farther  upon  the  land  than  any 
previous  one  for  at  least  a  score  of  years.  It  has  overflowed 
stone  fences,  and  even  rendered  a  portion  of  the  highway 
navigable  for  boats.  The  waters,  however,  are  now  gradu 
ally  subsiding ;  islands  become  annexed  to  the  mainland, 
and  other  islands  emerge  like  new  creations  from  the  watery 
waste.  The  scene  supplies  an  admirable  image  of  the  re 
ceding  of  the  Nile — except  that  there  is  no  deposit  of  black 
slime — or  of  Noah's  flood,  only  that  there  is  a  freshness 
and  novelty  in  these  recovered  portions  of  the  continent 
which  give  the  impression  of  a  world  just  made  rather  than 
of  one  so  polluted  that  a  deluge  had  been  requisite  to  purify 
it.  These  upspringing  islands  are  the  greenest  spots  in  the 
landscape ;  the  first  gleam  of  sunlight  suffices  to  cover  them 
with  verdure. 

Thank  Providence  for  spring!  The  earth — and  man 
himself,  by  sympathy  with  his  birthplace — would  be  far 
other  than  we  find  them  if  life  toiled  wearily  onward  with 
out  this  periodical  infusion  of  the  primal  spirit.  Will  the 
world  ever  be  so  decayed  that  spring  may  not  renew  its 
greenness?  Can  man  be  so  dismally  age-stricken  that  no 


98  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

faintest  sunshine  of  his  youth  may  revisit  him  once  a  year? 
It  is  impossible.  The  moss  on  our  time-worn  mansion 
brightens  into  beauty,  the  good  old  pastor  who  once  dwelt 
here  renewed  his  prime,  regained  his  boyhood,  in  the  genial 
breezes  of  his  ninetieth  spring.  Alas  for  the  worn  and 
heavy  soul  if,  whether  in  youth  or  age,  it  have  outlived 
its  privilege  of  springtime  sprightliness !  From  such  a  soul 
the  world  must  hope  no  reformation  of  its  evil — no  sym 
pathy  with  the  lofty  faith  and  gallant  struggles  of  those 
who  contend  in  its  behalf.  Summer  works  in  the  present 
and  thinks  not  of  the  future ;  autumn  is  a  rich  conservative ; 
winter  has  utterly  lost  its  faith,  and  clings  tremulously  to 
the  remembrance  of  what  has  been ;  but  spring,  with  its 
outgushing  life,  is  the  true  type  of  the  movement. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  COMPOSITION 
EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

CHARLES  DICKENS,  in  a  note  now  lying  before  me,  allud 
ing  to  an  examination  I  once  made  of  the  mechanism  of 
Barnaby  Rudge,  says — "  By  the  way,  are  you  aware  that 
Godwin  wrote  his  Caleb  Williams  backwards?  He  first 
involved  his  hero  in  a  web  of  difficulties,  forming  the 
second  volume,  and  then,  for  the  first,  cast  about  him  for 
some  mode  of  accounting  for  what  had  been  done." 

I  cannot  think  this  the  precise  mode  of  procedure  on  the 
part  of  Godwin — and  indeed  what  he  himself  acknowledges, 
is  not  altogether  in  accordance  with  Mr.  Dickens'  idea — 
but  the  author  of  Caleb  Williams  was  too  good  an  artist 
not  to  perceive  the  advantage  derivable  from  at  least  a 
somewhat  similar  process.  Nothing  is  more  clear  than  that 
every  plot,  worth  the  name,  must  be  elaborated  to  its 
denouement  before  anything  be  attempted  with  the  pen.  It 
is  only  with  the  denouement  constantly  in  view  that  we  can 
give  a  plot  its  indispensable  air  of  consequence,  or  causation, 
by  making  the  incidents,  and  especially  the  tone  at  all  points, 
tend  to  the  development  of  the  intention. 

There  is  a  radical  error,  I  think,  in  the  usual  mode  of 
constructing  a  story.  Either  history  affords  a  thesis — or 
one  is  suggested  by  an  incident  of  the  day — or,  at  best,  the 
author  sets  himself  to  work  in  the  combination  of  striking 
events  to  form  merely  the  basis  of  his  narrative — designing, 
generally,  to  fill  in  with  description,  dialogue,  or  autorial 
comment,  whatever  crevices  of  fact,  or  action,  may,  from 
page  to  page,  render  themselves  apparent. 

99 


ioo  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

I  prefer  commencing  with  the  consideration  of  an  effect. 
Keeping  originality  always  in  view — for  he  is  false  to  him 
self  who  ventures  to  dispense  with  so  obvious  and  so  easily 
attainable  a  source  of  interest — I  say  to  myself,  in  the  first 
place,  "  Of  the  innumerable  effects,  or  impressions,  of  which 
the  heart,  the  intellect,  or  (more  generally)  the  soul  is 
susceptible,  what  one  shall  I,  on  the  present  occasion,  se 
lect?"  Having  chosen  a  novel,  first,  and  secondly  a  vivid 
effect,  I  consider  whether  it  can  be  best  wrought  by  incident 
or  tone — whether  by  ordinary  incidents  and  peculiar  tone, 
or  the  converse,  or  by  peculiarity  both  of  incident  and  tone 
— afterward  looking  about  me  (or  rather  within)  for  such 
combinations  of  event,  or  tone,  as  shall  best  aid  me  in  the 
construction  of  the  effect. 

I  have  often  thought  how  interesting  a  magazine  paper 
might  be  written  by  any  author  who  would — that  is  to  say, 
who  could — detail,  step  by  step,  the  processes  by  which  any 
one  of  his  compositions  attained  its  ultimate  point  of  com 
pletion.  Why  such  a  paper  has  never  been  given  to  the 
world,  I  am  much  at  a  loss  to  say — but,  perhaps,  the  autorial 
vanity  has  had  more  to  do  with  the  omission  than  any  one 
other  cause.  Most  writers — poets  in  especial — prefer  hav 
ing  it  understood  that  they  compose  by  a  species  of  fine 
frenzy — an  ecstatic  intuition — and  would  positively  shudder 
at  letting  the  public  take  a  peep  behind  the  scenes,  at  the 
elaborate  and  vacillating  crudities  of  thought — at  the  true 
purposes  seized  only  at  the  last  moment — at  the  innumerable 
glimpses  of  idea  that  arrived  not  at  the  maturity  of  full 
view — at  the  fully  matured  fancies  discarded  in  despair  as 
unmanageable — at  the  cautious  selections  and  rejections — 
at  the  painful  erasures  and  interpolations — in  a  word,  at 
the  wheels  and  pinions — the  tackle  for  scene-shifting — the 
step-ladders  and  demon-traps — the  cock's  feathers,  the  red 
paint  and  the  black  patches,  which,  in  ninety-nine  cases  out 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  COMPOSITION  101 

of  the  hundred,  constitute  the  properties  of  the  literary 
histrio. 

I  am  aware,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  case  is  by  no 
means  common,  in  which  an  author  is  at  all  in  condilion 
to  retrace  the  steps  by  which  his  conclusions  have  been  at 
tained.  In  general,  suggestions,  having  arisen  pell-mell, 
are  pursued  and  forgotten  in  a  similar  manner. 

For  my  own  part,  I  have  neither  Sympathy  with  the  re 
pugnance  alluded  to,  nor,  at  any  time,  the  least  difficulty 
in  recalling  to  mind  the  progressive  steps  of  any  of  my 
compositions;  and,  since  the  interest  of  an  analysis,  or  re 
construction,  such  as  I  have  considered  a  desideratum,  is 
quite  independent  of  any  real  or  fancied  interest  in  the 
thing  analyzed,  it  will  not  be  regarded  as  a  breach  of  de 
corum  on  my  part  to  show  the  modus  operandi  by  which 
some  one  of  my  own  works  was  put  together.  I  select 
(<  The  Raven,"  as  the  most  generally  known.  It  is  my 
design  to  render  it  manifest  that  no  one  point  in  its  com 
position  is  referable  either  to  accident  or  intuition — that 
the  work  proceeded,  step  by  step,  to  its  completion  with 
the  precision  and  rigid  consequence  of  a  mathematical 
problem. 

Let  us  dismiss,  as  irrelevant  to  the  poem,  per  se,  the  cir 
cumstance — or  say  the  necessity — which,  in  the  first  place, 
gave  rise  to  the  intention  of  composing  a  poem  that  should 
suit  at  once  the  popular  and  the  critical  taste. 

We  commence,  then,  with  this  intention. 

The  initial  consideration  was  that  of  extent.  If  any 
literary  work  is  too  long  to  be  read  at  one  sitting,  we  must 
be  content  to  dispense  with  the  immensely  important  effect 
derivable  from  unity  of  impression — for,  if  two  sittings  be 
required,  the  affairs  of  the  world  interfere,  and  everything 
like  totality  is  at  once  destroyed.  But  since,  ceteris  paribus, 
no  poet  can  afford  to  dispense  with  anything  that  may  ad- 


IO2  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

vance  his  design,  it  but  remains  to  be  seen  whether  there 
is,  in  extent,  any  advantage  to  counterbalance  the  loss  of 
unity  which  attends  it.  Here  I  say  no,  at  once.  What  we 
term  a  long  poem  is,  in  fact,  merely  a  succession  of  brief 
ones — that  is  to  say,  of  brief  poetical  effects.  It  is  needless 
to  demonstrate  that  a  poem  is  such,  only  inasmuch  as  it  in 
tensely  excites,  by  elevating,  the  soul ;  and  all  intense  ex 
citements  are,  through  a  psychal  necessity,  brief.  For  this 
reason,  at  least  one-half  of  the  Paradise  Lost  is  essen 
tially  prose — a  succession  of  poetical  excitements  inter 
spersed,  inevitably,  with  corresponding  depressions — the 
whole  being  deprived,  through  the  extremeness  of  its  length, 
of  the  vastly  important  artistic  element,  totality,  or  unity,  of 
effect. 

It  appears  evident,  then,  that  there  is  a  distinct  limit,  as 
regards  length,  to  all  works  of  literary  art — the  limit  of  a 
single  sitting — and  that,  although  in  certain  classes  of  prose 
composition,  such  as  Robinson  Crusoe,  (demanding  no 
unity,)  this  limit  may  be  advantageously  overpassed,  it  can 
never  properly  be  overpassed  in  a  poem.  Within  this  limit, 
the  extent  of  a  poem  may  be  made  to  bear  mathematical 
relation  to  its  merit — in  other  words,  to  the  excitement  or 
elevation — again  in  other  words,  to  the  degree  of  the 
true  poetical  effect  which  it  is  capable  of  inducing;  for  it 
is  clear  that  the  brevity  must  be  in  direct  ratio  of  the  in 
tensity  of  the  intended  effect : — this,  with  one  proviso — that 
a  certain  degree  of  duration  is  absolutely  requisite  for  the 
production  of  any  effect  at  all. 

•  Holding  in  view  these  considerations,  as  well  as  that 
degree  of  excitement  which  I  deemed  not  above  the  popular, 
while  not  below  the  critical,  taste,  I  reached  at  once  what 
I  conceived  the  proper  length  for  my  intended  poem — a 
length  of  about  one  hundred  lines.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  hundred 
and  eight. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  COMPOSITION  103 

My  next  thought  concerned  the  choice  of  an  impression, 
or  effect,  to  be  conveyed:  and  here  I  may  as  well  observe 
that,  throughout  the  construction,  I  kept  steadily  in  view 
the  design  of  rendering  the  work  universally  appreciable.  I 
should  be  carried  too  far  out  of  my  immediate  topic  were  I 
to  demonstrate  a  point  upon  which  I  have  repeatedly  in 
sisted,  and  which,  with  the  poetical,  stands  not  in  the  slight 
est  need  of  demonstration — the  point,  I  mean,  that  Beauty 
is  the  sole  legitimate  province  of  the  poem.  A  few  words, 
however,  in  elucidation  of  my  real  meaning,  which  some 
of  my  friends  have  evinced  a  disposition  to  misrepresent. 
That  pleasure  which  is  at  once  the  most  intense,  the  most 
elevating,  and  the  most  pure,  is,  I  believe,  found  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  beautiful.  When,  indeed,  men  speak 
of  Beauty,  they  mean,  precisely,  not  a  quality,  as  is  sup 
posed,  but  an  effect — they  refer,  in  short,  just  to  that  intense 
and  pure  elevation  of  soul — not  of  intellect,  or  of  heart — 
upon  which  I  have  commented,  and  which  is  experienced  in 
consequence  of  contemplating  "  the  beautiful."  Now  I 
designate  Beauty  as  the  province  of  the  poem,  merely  be 
cause  it  is  an  obvious  rule  of  Art  that  effects  should  be 
made  to  spring  from  direct  causes — that  objects  should  be 
attained  through  means  best  adapted  for  their  attainment — 
no  one  as  yet  having  been  weak  enough  to  deny  that  the 
peculiar  elevation  alluded  to  is  most  readily  attained  in 
the  poem.  Now  the  object,  Truth,  or  the  satisfaction  of  the 
intellect,  and  the  object  Passion,  or  the  excitement  of  the 
heart,  are,  although  attainable,  to  a  certain  extent,  in  poetry, 
far  more  readily  attainable  in  prose.  Truth,  in  fact,  de 
mands  a  precision,  and  Passion,  a  homeliness  (the  truly  pas 
sionate  will  comprehend  me)  which  are  absolutely  an 
tagonistic  to  that  Beauty  which,  I  maintain,  is  the  excite 
ment,  or  pleasurable  elevation,  of  the  soul.  It  by  no  means 
follows  from  anything  here  said,  that  passion,  or  even  truth, 


IO4  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

may  not  be  introduced,  and  even  profitably  introduced,  into 
a  poem — for  they  may  serve  in  elucidation,  or  aid  the  gen 
eral  effect,  as  do  discords  in  music,  by  contrast — but  the 
true  artist  will  always  contrive,  first,  to  tone  them  into 
proper  subservience  to  the  predominant  aim,  and,  secondly, 
to  enveil  them,  as  far  as  possible,  in  that  Beauty  which  is 
the  atmosphere  and  the  essence  of  the  poem. 

Regarding,  then,  Beauty  as  my  province,  my  next  ques 
tion  referred  to  the  tone  of  its  highest  manifestation — and 
all  experience  has  shown  that  this  tone  is  one  of  sadness. 
Beauty  of  whatever  kind,  in  its  supreme  development,  in 
variably  excites  the  sensitive  soul  to  tears.  Melancholy  is 
thus  the  most  legitimate  of  all  the  poetical  tones. 

The  length,  the  province,  and  the  tone,  being  thus  deter 
mined,  I  betook  myself  to  ordinary  induction,  with  the  view 
of  obtaining  some  artistic  piquancy  which  might  serve  me 
as  a  key-note  in  the  construction  of  the  poem — some  pivot 
upon  which  the  whole  structure  might  turn.  In  carefully 
thinking  over  all  the  usual  artistic  effects — or  more  properly 
points,  in  the  theatrical  sense — I  did  not  fail  to  perceive 
immediately  that  no  one  had  been  so  universally  employed 
as  that  of  the  refrain.  The  universality  of  its  employment 
sufficed  to  assure  me  of  its  intrinsic  value,  and  spared  me 
the  necessity  of  submitting  it  to  analysis.  I  considered  it, 
however,  with  regard  to  its  susceptibility  of  improvement, 
and  soon  saw  it  to  be  in  a  primitive  condition.  As  com 
monly  used,  the  refrain,  or  burden,  not  only  is  limited  to 
lyric  verse,  but  depends  for  its  impression  upon  the  force 
of  monotone — both  in  sound  and  thought.  The  pleasure  is 
deduced  solely  from  the  sense  of  identity — of  repetition.  I 
resolved  to  diversify,  and  so  vastly  heighten,  the  effect,  by 
adhering,  in  general,  to  the  monotone  of  sound,  while  I 
continually  varied  that  of  thought:  that  is  to  say,  I  de 
termined  to  produce  continuously  novel  effects,  by  the 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  COMPOSITION  105 

variation  of  the  application  of  the  refrain — the  refrain  itself 
remaining,  for  the  most  part,  unvaried. 

These  points  being  settled,  I  next  bethought  me  of  the 
nature  of  my  refrain.  Since  its  application  was  to  be  re 
peatedly  varied,  it  was  clear  that  the  refrain  itself  must  be 
brief,  for  there  would  have  been  an  insurmountable  difficulty 
in  frequent  variations  of  application  in  any  sentence  of 
length.  In  proportion  to  the  brevity  of  the  sentence,  would, 
of  course,  be  the  facility  of  the  variation.  This  led  me  at 
once  to  a  single  word  as  the  best  refrain. 

The  question  now  arose  as  to  the  character  of  the  word. 
Having  made  up  my  mind  to  a  refrain,  the  division  of  the 
poem  into  stanzas  was,  of  course,  a  corollary:  the  refrain 
forming  the  close  to  each  stanza.  That  such  a  close,  to 
have  force,  must  be  sonorous  and  susceptible  of  protracted 
emphasis,  admitted  no  doubt:  and  these  considerations 
inevitably  led  me  to  the  long  o  as  the  most  sonorous 
vowel,  in  connection  with  r  as  the  most  producible  conso 
nant. 

The  sound  of  the  refrain  being  thus  determined,  it  be 
came  necessary  to  select  a  word  embodying  this  sound,  and 
at  the  same  time  in  the  fullest  possible  keeping  with  that 
melancholy  which  I  had  predetermined  as  the  tone  of  the 
poem.  In  such  a  search  it  would  have  been  absolutely  im 
possible  to  overlook  the  word  "  Nevermore."  In  fact,  it 
was  the  very  first  which  presented  itself. 

The  next  desideratum  was  a  pretext  for  the  continuous 
use  of  the  one  word  "  nevermore."  In  observing  the  diffi 
culty  which  I  at  once  found  in  inventing  a  sufficiently 
plausible  reason  for  its  continuous  repetition,  I  did  not  fail 
to  perceive  that  this  difficulty  arose  solely  from  the  pre- 
assumption  that  the  word  was  to  be  so  continuously  or 
monotonously  spoken  by  a  human  being — I  did  not  fail  to 
perceive,  in  short,  that  the  difficulty  lay  in  the  reconcilia- 


io6  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

tion  of  this  monotony  with  the  exercise  of  reason  on  the 
part  of  the  creature  repeating  the  word.  Here,  then,  im 
mediately  arose  the  idea  of  a  non-reasoning  creature  capable 
of  speech ;  and,  very  naturally,  a  parrot,  in  the  first  in 
stance,  suggested  itself,  but  was  superseded  forthwith  by  a 
Raven,  as  equally  capable  of  speech,  and  infinitely  more  in 
keeping  with  the  intended  tone. 

I  had  now  gone  so  far  as  the  conception  of  a  Raven — 
the  bird  of  ill  omen — monotonously  repeating  the  one  word, 
"  Nevermore,"  at  the  conclusion  of  each  stanza,  in  a  poem 
of  melancholy  tone,  and  in  length  about  one  hundred  lines. 
Now,  never  losing  sight  of  the  object  supremeness,  or  per 
fection,  at  all  points,  I  asked  myself — "  Of  all  melancholy 
topics,  what,  according  to  the  universal  understanding  of 
mankind,  is  the  most  melancholy?"  Death — was  the  ob 
vious  reply.  "  And  when,"  I  said,  "  is  this  most  melan 
choly  of  topics  most  poetical  ?  "  From  what  I  have  already 
explained  at  some  length,  the  answer,  here  also,  is  obvious — 
"  When  it  most  closely  allies  itself  to  Beauty:  the  death, 
then,  of  a  beautiful  woman  is,  unquestionably,  the  most 
poetical  topic  in  the  world — and  equally  is  it  beyond  doubt 
that  the  lips  best  suited  for  such  topic  are  those  of  a 
bereaved  lover." 

I  had  now  to  combine  the  two  ideas,  of  a  lover  lamenting 
his  deceased  mistress  and  a  Raven  continuously  repeating 
the  word  "  Nevermore  " — I  had  to  combine  these,  bearing 
in  mind  my  design  of  varying,  at  every  turn,  the  application 
of  the  word  repeated ;  but  the  only  intelligible  mode  of  such 
combination  is  that  of  imagining  the  Raven  employing  the 
word  in  answer  to  the  queries  of  the  lover.  And  here  it  was 
that  I  saw  at  once  the  opportunity  afforded  for  the  effect  on 
which  I  had  been  depending — that  is  to  say,  the  effect  of 
the  variation  of  application.  I  saw  that  I  could  make  the 
first  query  propounded  by  the  lover — the  first  query  to 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  COMPOSITION  107 

which  the  Raven  should  reply  "  Nevermore  " — that  I  could 
make  this  first  query  a  commonplace  one — the  second  less 
so — the  third  still  less,  and  so  on — until  at  length  the  lover, 
startled  from  his  original  nonchalance  by  the  melancholy 
character  of  the  word  itself — by  its  frequent  repetition — 
and  by  a  consideration  of  the  ominous  reputation  of  the 
fowl  that  uttered  it — is  at  length  excited  to  superstition, 
and  wildly  propounds  queries  of  a  far  different  character — 
queries  whose  solution  he  has  passionately  at  heart — pro 
pounds  them  half  in  superstition  and  half  in  that  species 
of  despair  which  delights  in  self-torture — propounds  them 
not  altogether  because  he  believes  in  the  prophetic  or 
demoniac  character  of  the  bird  (which,  reason  assures  him, 
is  merely  repeating  a  lesson  learned  by  rote)  but  because 
he  experiences  a  frenzied  pleasure  in  so  modeling  his  ques 
tions  as  to  receive  from  the  expected  "  Nevermore  "  the 
most  delicious  because  the  most  intolerable  of  sorrow.  Per 
ceiving  the  opportunity  thus  afforded  me — or,  more  strictly, 
thus  forced  upon  me  in  the  progress  of  the  construction — I 
first  established  in  mind  the  climax,  or  concluding  query — 
that  to  which  "  Nevermore  "  should  be  in  the  last  place  an 
answer — that  in  reply  to  which  this  word  "  Nevermore  " 
should  involve  the  utmost  conceivable  amount  of  sorrow 
and  despair. 

Here  then  the  poem  may  be  said  to  have  its  beginning 
— at  the  end,  where  all  works  of  art  should  begin — for  it 
was  here,  at  this  point  of  my  preconsiderations,  that  I  first 
put  pen  to  paper  in  the  composition  of  the  stanza : 


' '  Prophet,'  said  I,  '  thing  of  evil!  prophet  still  if  bird  or  devil! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we  both  adore, 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore.' 
Quoth  the  raven  '  Nevermore.'  " 


io8  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

I  composed  this  stanza,  at  this  point,  first  that,  by  estab 
lishing  the  climax,  I  might  the  better  vary  and  graduate,  as 
regards  seriousness  and  importance,  the  preceding  queries 
of  the  lover — and,  secondly,  that  I  might  definitely  settle 
the  rhythm,  the  meter,  and  the  length  and  general  ar 
rangement  of  the  stanza — as  well  as  graduate  the  stan 
zas  which  were  to  precede,  so  that  none  of  them  might 
surpass  this  in  rhythmical  effect.  Had  I  been  able,  in 
the  subsequent  composition,  to  construct  more  vigorous 
stanzas,  I  should,  without  scruple,  have  purposely  en 
feebled  them,  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  the  climacteric 
effect. 

And  here  I  may  as  well  say  a  few  words  of  the  versifi 
cation.  My  first  object  (as  usual)  was  originality.  The 
extent  to  which  this  has  been  neglected,  in  versification,  is 
one  of  the  most  unaccountable  things  in  the  world.  Ad 
mitting  that  there  is  little  possibility  of  variety  in  mere 
rhythm,  it  is  still  clear  that  the  possible  varieties  of  meter 
and  stanza  are  absolutely  infinite — and  yet,  for  centuries,  no 
man,  in  verse,  has  ever  done,  or  ever  seemed  to  think  of 
doing,  an  original  thing.  The  fact  is,  originality  (unless  in 
minds  of  very  unusual  force)  is  by  no  means  a  matter,  as 
some  suppose,  of  impulse  or  intuition.  In  general,  to  be 
found,  it  must  be  elaborately  sought,  and  although  a  posi 
tive  merit  of  the  highest  class,  demands  in  its  attainment 
less  of  invention  than  negation. 

Of  course,  I  pretend  to  no  originality  in  either  the  rhythm 
or  meter  of  the  "  Raven."  The  former  is  trochaic — the 
latter  is  octameter  acatalectic,  alternating  with  heptameter 
catalectic  repeated  in  the  refrain  of  the  fifth  verse,  and 
terminating  with  tetrameter  catalectic.  Less  pedantically — 
the  feet  employed  throughout  (trochees)  consist  of  a  long 
syllable  followed  by  a  short:  the  first  line  of  the  stanza 
consists  of  eight  of  these  feet — the  second  of  seven  and  a 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  COMPOSITION  109 

half  (in  effect  two-thirds) — the  third  of  eight — the  fourth 
of  seven  and  a  half — the  fifth  the  same — the  sixth  three 
and  a  half.  Now,  each  of  these  lines,  taken  individually, 
has  been  employed  before,  and  what  originality  the 
"  Raven  "  has,  is  in  their  combination  into  stanza;  nothing 
even  remotely  approaching  this  combination  has  ever  been 
attempted.  The  effect  of  this  originality  of  combination  is 
aided  by  other  unusual,  and  some  altogether  novel  effects, 
arising  from  an  extension  of  the  application  of  the  prin 
ciples  of  rhyme  and  alliteration. 

The  next  point  to  be  considered  was  the  mode  of  bring 
ing  together  the  lover  and  the  Raven — and  the  first  branch 
of  this  consideration  was  the  locale.  For  this  the  most 
natural  suggestion  might  seem  to  be  a  forest,  or  the  fields 
— but  it  has  always  appeared  to  me  that  a  close  circumscrip 
tion  of  space  is  absolutely  necessary  to  the  effect  of  insu 
lated  incident : — it  has  the  force  of  a  frame  to  a  picture.  It 
has  an  indisputable  moral  power  in  keeping  concentrated 
the  attention,  and,  of  course,  must  not  be  confounded  with 
mere  unity  of  place. 

I  determined,  then,  to  place  the  lover  in  his  chamber — 
in  a  chamber  rendered  sacred  to  him  by  memories  of  her 
who  had  frequented  it.  The  room  is  represented  as  richly 
furnished — this  in  mere  pursuance  of  the  ideas  I  have  al 
ready  explained  on  the  subject  of  Beauty,  as  the  sole  true 
poetical  thesis. 

The  locale  being  thus  determined,  I  had  now  to  introduce 
the  bird — and  the  thought  of  introducing  him  through  the 
window,  was  inevitable.  The  idea  of  making  the  lover  sup 
pose,  in  the  first  instance,  that  the  flapping  of  the  wings  of 
the  bird  against  the  shutter,  is  a  "  tapping  "  at  the  door, 
originated  in  a  wish  to  increase,  by  prolonging,  the  reader's 
curiosity,  and  in  a  desire  to  admit  the  incidental  effect  aris 
ing  from  the  lover's  throwing  open  the  door,  finding  all 


no  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

dark,  and  thence  adopting  the  half-fancy  that  it  was  the 
spirit  of  his  mistress  that  knocked. 

I  made  the  night  tempestuous,  first,  to  account  for  the 
Raven's  seeking  admission,  and  secondly,  for  the  effect  of 
contrast  with  the  (physical)  serenity  within  the  chamber. 

I  made  the  bird  alight  on  the  bust  of  Pallas,  also  for  the 
effect  of  contrast  between  the  marble  and  the  plumage — it 
being  understood  that  the  bust  was  absolutely  suggested  by 
the  bird — the  bust  of  Pallas  being  chosen,  first,  as  most  in 
keeping  with  the  scholarship  of  the  lover,  and,  secondly,  for 
the  sonorousness  of  the  word,  Pallas,  itself. 

About  the  middle  of  the  poem,  also,  I  have  availed  myself 
of  the  force  of  contrast,  with  a  view  of  deepening  the  ulti 
mate  impression.  For  example,  an  air  of  the  fantastic — 
approaching  as  nearly  to  the  ludicrous  as  was  admissible — 
is  given  to  the  Raven's  entrance.  He  comes  in  "  with  many 
a  flirt  and  flutter." 

•'  Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he — not  a  moment  stopped  or  stayed 

he, 
But  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber  door." 

In  the  two  stanzas  which  follow,  the  design  is  more 
obviously  carried  out: — 

"  Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
'  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven  thou,'  I  said,  '  art  sure  no 

craven, 
Ghastly   grim    and   ancient    Raven    wandering    from    the    nightly 

shore — 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore ! ' 
Quoth  the  Raven  '  Nevermore.' 

"  Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber  door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber  door, 
With  such  name  as  '  Nevermore.'  " 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  COMPOSITION  .  in 

The  effect  of  the  denouement  being  thus  provided  for,  I 
immediately  drop  the  fantastic  for  a  tone  of  the  most  pro 
found  seriousness : — this  tone  commencing  in  the  stanza 
directly  following  the  one  last  quoted,  with  the  line, 

"  But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke  only,"  etc. 

From  this  epoch  the  lover  no  longer  jests — no  longer 
sees  anything  even  of  the  fantastic  in  the  Raven's  demeanor. 
He  speaks  of  him  as  a  "  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and 
ominous  bird  of  yore,"  and  feels  the  "  fiery  eyes  "  burning 
into  his  "  bosom's  core."  This  revolution  of  thought,  or 
fancy,  on  the  lover's  part,  is  intended  to  induce  a  similar 
one  on  the  part  of  the  reader — to  bring  the  mind  into  a 
proper  frame  for  the  denouement — which  is  now  brought 
about  as  rapidly  and  as  directly  as  possible. 

With  the  denouement  proper — with  the  Raven's  reply, 
"  Nevermore,"  to  the  lover's  final  demand  if  he  shall  meet 
his  mistress  in  another  world — the  poem,  in  its  obvious 
phase,  that  of  a.  simple  narrative,  may  be  said  to  have  its 
completion.  So  far,  everything  is  within  the  limits  of  the 
accountable — of  the  real.  A  raven,  having  learned  by  rote 
the  single  word  "  Nevermore,"  and  having  escaped  from 
the  custody  of  its  owner,  is  driven  at  midnight,  through  the 
violence  of  a  storm,  to  seek  admission  at  a  window  from 
which  a  light  still  gleams — the  chamber-window  of  a  stu 
dent,  occupied  half  in  poring  over  a  volume,  half  in 
dreaming  of  a  beloved  mistress  deceased.  The  casement 
being  thrown  open  at  the  fluttering  of  the  bird's  wings,  the 
bird  itself  perches  on  the  most  convenient  seat  out  of  the 
immediate  reach  of  the  student,  who,  amused  by  the  incident 
and  the  oddity  of  the  visitor's  demeanor,  demands  of  it,  in 
jest  and  without  looking  for  a  reply,  its  name.  The  raven 
addressed,  answers  with  its  customary  word,  "  Never 
more  " — a  word  which  finds  immediate  echo  in  the  melan- 


ii2  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

choly  heart  of  the  student,  who,  giving  utterance  aloud  to 
certain  thoughts  suggested  by  the  occasion,  is  again  startled 
by  the  fowl's  repetition  of  "  Nevermore."  The  student 
now  guesses  the  state  of  the  case,  but  is  impelled,  as  I 
have  before  explained,  by  the  human  thirst  for  self-torture, 
and  in  part  by  superstition,  to  propound  such  queries  to 
the  bird  as  will  bring  him,  the  lover,  the  most  of  the  luxury 
of  sorrow,  through  the  anticipated  answer  "  Nevermore." 
With  the  indulgence,  to  the  utmost  extreme,  of  this  self- 
torture,  the  narration,  in  what  I  have  termed  its  first  or 
obvious  phase,  has  a  natural  termination,  and  so  far  there 
has  been  no  overstepping  of  the  limits  of  the  real. 

But  in  subjects  so  handled,  however  skillfully,  or  with 
however  vivid  an  array  of  incident,  there  is  always  a  cer 
tain  hardness  or  nakedness,  which  repels  the  artistical  eye. 
Two  things  are  invariably  required — first,  some  amount  of 
complexity,  or  more  properly,  adaptation;  and,  secondly, 
some  amount  of  suggestiveness — some  undercurrent,  how 
ever  indefinite,  of  meaning.  It  is  this  latter,  in  especial, 
which  imparts  to  a  work  of  art  so  much  of  that  richness 
(to  borrow  from  colloquy  a  forcible  term)  which  we  are 
too  fond  of  confounding  with  the  ideal.  It  is  the  excess 
of  the  suggested  meaning — -jt  is  the  rendering  this  the  upper 
instead  of  the  under  current  of  the  theme — which  turns  into 
prose  (and  that  of  the  very  flattest  kind)  the  so-called 
poetry  of  the  so-called  transcendentalists. 

Holding  these  opinions,  I  added  the  two  concluding 
stanzas  of  the  poem- — their  suggestiveness  being  thus  made 
to  pervade  all  the  narrative  which  has  preceded  them.  The 
undercurrent  of  meaning  is  rendered  first  apparent  in  the 
lines — 

: '  Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off 
my  door ! ' 

Quoth  the  Raven  '  Nevermore ! '  " 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  COMPOSITION  113 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  words,  "  from  out  my  heart/' 
involve  the  first  metaphorical  expression  in  the  poem.  They, 
with  the  answer,  "  Nevermore,"  dispose  the  mind  to  seek  a 
moral  in  all  that  has  been  previously  narrated.  The  reader 
begins  now  to  regard  the  Raven  as  emblematical — but  it  is 
not  until  the  very  last  line  of  the  very  last  stanza,  that  the 
intention  of  making  him  emblematical  of  Mournful  and 
Never-ending  Remembrance  is  permitted  distinctly  to  be 
seen: 

"  And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting, 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the 

floor ; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore." 


BREAD  AND  THE  NEWSPAPER 
OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

THIS  is  the  new  version  of  the  Panem  et  Circenses  of 
the  Roman  populace.  It  is  our  ultimatum,  as  that  was 
theirs.  They  must  have  something  to  eat,  and  the  circus- 
shows  to  look  at.  We  must  have  something  to  eat,  and 
the  papers  to  read. 

Everything  else  we  can  give  up.  If  we  are  rich,  we  can 
lay  down  our  carriages,  stay  away  from  Newport  or  Sara 
toga,  and  adjourn  the  trip  to  Europe  sine  die.  If  we  live  in 
a  small  way,  there  are  at  least  new  dresses  and  bonnets  and 
every-day  luxuries  which  we  can  dispense  with.  If  the 
young  Zouave  of  the  family  looks  smart  in  his  new  uni 
form,  its  respectable  head  is  content,  though  he  himself 
grow  seedy  as  a  caraway-umbel  late  in  the  season.  He  will 
cheerfully  calm  the  perturbed  nap  of  his  old  beaver  by  pa 
tient  brushing  in  place  of  buying  a  new  one,  if  only  the 
Lieutenant's  jaunty  cap  is  what  it  should  be.  We  all  take 
a  pride  in  sharing  the  epidemic  economy  of  the  time.  Only 
bread  and  the  newspaper  we  must  have,  whatever  else  we 
do  without. 

How  this  war  is  simplifying  our  mode  of  being!  We 
live  on  our  emotions,  as  the  sick  man  is  said  in  the  common 
speech  to  be  nourished  by  his  fever.  Our  ordinary  mental 
food  has  become  distasteful,  and  what  would  have  been 
intellectual  luxuries  at  other  times,  are  now  absolutely 
repulsive. 

All  this  change  in  our  manner  of  existence  implies  that 

114 


BREAD  AND  THE  NEWSPAPER  115 

we  have  experienced  some  very  profound  impression,  which 
will  sooner  or  later  betray  itself  in  permanent  effects  on 
the  minds  and  bodies  of  many  among  us.  We  cannot  forget 
Corvisart's  observation  of  the  frequency  with  which  dis 
eases  of  the  heart  were  noticed  as  the  consequence  of  the 
terrible  emotions  produced  by  the  scenes  of  the  great  French 
Revolution.  Laennec  tells  the  story  of  a  convent,  of  which 
he  was  the  medical  director,  where  all  the  nuns  were  sub 
jected  to  the  severest  penances  and  schooled  in  the  most 
painful  doctrines.  They  all  became  consumptive  soon  after 
their  entrance,  so  that,  in  the  course  of  his  ten  years'  at 
tendance,  all  the  inmates  died  out  two  or  three  times,  and 
were  replaced  by  new  ones.  He  does  not  hesitate  to  at 
tribute  the  disease  from  which  they  suffered  to  those 
depressing  moral  influences  to  which  they  were  subjected. 

So  far  we  have  noticed  little  more  than  disturbances  of 
the  nervous  system  as  a  consequence  of  the  war  excitement 
in  non-combatants.  Take  the  first  trifling  example  which 
comes  to  our  recollection.  A  sad  disaster  to  the  Federal 
army  was  told  the  other  day  in  the  presence  of  two  gentle 
men  and  a  lady.  Both  the  gentlemen  complained  of  a  sud 
den  feeling  at  the  epigastrium,  or,  less  learnedly,  the  pit  of 
the  stomach,  changed  color,  and  confessed  to  a  slight  tremor 
about  the  knees.  The  lady  had  a  " grand e  revolution"  as 
French  patients  say, — went  home,  and  kept  her  bed  for  the 
rest  of  the  day.  Perhaps  the  reader  may  smile  at  the  men 
tion  of  such  trivial  indispositions,  but  in  more  sensitive 
natures  death  itself  follows  in  some  cases  from  no  more 
serious  cause.  An  old  gentleman  fell  senseless  in  fatal 
apoplexy,  on  hearing  of  Napoleon's  return  from  Elba.  One 
of  our  early  friends,  who  recently  died  of  the  same  com 
plaint,  was  thought  to  have  had  his  attack  mainly  in  conse 
quence  of  the  excitements  of  the  time. 

We  all  know  what  the  war  -fever  is  in  our  young  men, — 


u6  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

what  a  devouring  passion  it  becomes  in  those  whom  it 
assails.  Patriotism  is  the  fire  of  it,  no  doubt,  but  this  is  fed 
with  fuel  of  all  sorts.  The  love  of  adventure,  the  contagion 
of  example,  the  fear  of  losing  the  chance  of  participating  in 
the  great  events  of  the  time,  the  desire  of  personal  distinc 
tion,  all  help  to  produce  those  singular  transformations 
which  we  often  witness,  turning  the  most  peaceful  of  our 
youth  into  the  most  ardent  of.  our  soldiers.  But  something 
of  the  same  fever  in  a  different  form  reaches  a  good  many 
non-combatants,  who  have  no  thought  of  losing  a  drop  of 
precious  blood  belonging  to  themselves  or  their  families. 
Some  of  the  symptoms  we  shall  mention  are  almost  uni 
versal  ;  they  are  as  plain  in  the  people  we  meet  everywhere 
as  the  marks  of  an  influenza,  when  that  is  prevailing. 

The  first  is  a  nervous  restlessness  of  a  very  peculiar 
character.  Men  cannot  think,  or  write,  or  attend  to  their 
ordinary  business.  They  stroll  up  and  down  the  streets,  or 
saunter  out  upon  the  public  places.  We  confessed  to  an 
illustrious  author  that  we  laid  down  the  volume  of  his  work 
which  we  were  reading  when  the  war  broke  out.  It  was 
as  interesting  as  a  romance,  but  the  romance  of  the  past 
grew  pale  before  the  red  light  of  the  terrible  present. 
Meeting  the  same  author  not  long  afterwards,  he  confessed 
that  he  had  laid  down  his  pen  at  the  same  time  that  we 
had  closed  his  book.  He  could  not  write  about  the  sixteenth 
century  any  more  than  we  could  read  about  it,  while  the 
nineteenth  was  in  the  very  agony  and  bloody  sweat  of  its 
great  sacrifice. 

Another  most  eminent  scholar  told  us  in  all  simplicity 
that  he  had  fallen  into  such  a  state  that  he  would  read  the 
same  telegraphic  dispatches  over  and  over  again  in  differ 
ent  papers,  as  if  they  were  new,  until  he  felt  as  if  he  were 
an  idiot.  Who  did  not  do  just  the  same  thing,  and  does 
not  often  do  it  still,  now  that  the  first  flush  of  the  fever  is 


BREAD  AND  THE  NEWSPAPER  117 

over  ?  Another  person  always  goes  through  the  side  streets 
on  his  way  for  the  noon  extra, — he  is  so  afraid  somebody 
will  meet  him  and  tell  the  news  he  wishes  to  read,  first  on 
the  bulletin-board,  and  then  in  the  great  capitals  and  leaded 
type  of  the  newspaper. 

When  any  startling  piece  of  war-news  comes,  it  keeps 
repeating  itself  in  our  minds  in  spite  of  all  we  can  do. 
The  same  trains  of  thought  go  tramping  round  in  circle 
through  the  brain,  like  the  supernumeraries  that  make  up 
the  grand  army  of  a  stage-show.  Now,  if  a  thought  goes 
round  through  the  brain  a  thousand  times  in  a  day,  it  will 
have  worn  as  deep  a  track  as  one  which  has  passed  through 
it  once  a  week  for  twenty  years.  This  accounts  for  the 
ages  we  seem  to  have  lived  since  the  twelfth  of  April  last, 
and,  to  state  it  more  generally,  for  that  ex  post  facto  opera 
tion  of  a  great  calamity,  or  any  very  powerful  impression, 
which  we  once  illustrated  by  the  image  of  a  stain  spread 
ing  backwards  from  the  leaf  of  life  open  before  us  through 
all  those  which  we  have  already  turned. 

Blessed  are  those  who  can  sleep  quietly  in  times  like 
these!  Yet,  not  wholly  blessed,  either:  for  what  is  more 
painful  than  the  awaking  from  peaceful  unconsciousness  to 
a  sense  that  there  is  something  wrong, — we  cannot  at  first 
think  what, — and  then  groping  our  way  about  through  the 
twilight  of  our  thoughts  until  we  come  full  upon  the  misery, 
which,  like  some  evil  bird,  seemed  to  have  flown  away,  but 
which  sits  waiting  for  us  on  its  perch  by  our  pillow  in  the 
gray  of  the  morning? 

The  converse  of  this  is  perhaps  still  more  painful.  Many 
have  the  feeling  in  their  waking  hours  that  the  trouble  they 
are  aching  with  is,  after  all,  only  a  dream, — if  they  will 
rub  their  eyes  briskly  enough  and  shake  themselves,  they 
will  awake  out  of  it,  and  find  all  their  supposed  grief  is 
unreal.  This  attempt  to  cajole  ourselves  out  of  an  ugly  fact 


n8  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

always  reminds  us  of  those  unhappy  flies  who  have  been 
indulging  in  the  dangerous  sweets  of  the  paper  prepared 
for  their  especial  use. 

Watch  one  of  them.  He  does  not  feel  quite  well, — at 
least,  he  suspects  himself  of  indisposition.  Nothing  se 
rious, — let  us  just  rub  our  fore-feet  together,  as  the  enor 
mous  creature  who  provides  for  us  rubs  his  hands,  and  all 
will  be  right.  He  rubs  them  with  that  peculiar  twisting 
movement  of  his,  and  pauses  for  the  effect.  No !  all  is  not 
quite  right  yet.  Ah!  it  is  our  head  that  is  not  set  on  just 
as  it  ought  to  be.  Let  us  settle  that  where  it  should  be,  and 
then  we  shall  certainly  be  in  good  trim  again.  So  he  pulls 
his  head  about  as  an  old  lady  adjusts  her  cap,  and  passes 
his  fore-paw  over  it  like  a  kitten  washing  herself. — Poor 
fellow !  It  is  not  a  fancy,  but  a  fact,  that  he  has  to  deal 
with.  If  he  could  read  the  letters  at  the  head  of  the  sheet, 
he  would  see  they  were  Fly-Papcr. — So  with  us,  when,  in 
our  waking  misery,  we  try  to  think  we  dream !  Perhaps 
very  young  persons  may  not  understand  this ;  as  we  grow 
older,  our  waking  and  dreaming  life  run  more  and  more 
into  each  other. 

Another  symptom  of  our  excited  condition  is  seen  in  the 
breaking  up  of  old  habits.  The  newspaper  is  as  imperious 
as  a  Russian  Ukase ;  it  will  be  had,  and  it  will  be  read.  To 
this  all  else  must  give  place.  If  we  must  go  out  at  un 
usual  hours  to  get  it,  we  shall  go,  in  spite  of  after-dinner 
nap  or  evening  somnolence.  If  it  finds  us  in  company,  it 
will  not  stand  on  ceremony,  but  cuts  short  the  compliment 
and  the  story  by  the  divine  right  of  its  telegraphic  dis 
patches. 

War  is  a  very  old  story,  but  it  is  a  new  one  to  this  gen 
eration  of  Americans.  Our  own  nearest  relation  in  the 
ascending  line  remembers  the  Revolution  well.  How  should 


BREAD  AND  THE  NEWSPAPER  119 

she  forget  it?  Did  she  not  lose  her  doll,  which  was  left 
behind,  when  she  was  carried  out  of  Boston,  about  that  time 
growing  uncomfortable  by  reason  of  cannon-balls  dropping 
in  from  the  neighboring  heights  at  all  hours, — in  token  of 
which  see  the  tower  of  Brattle  Street  Church  at  this  very 
day  ?  War  in  her  memory  means  '76.  As  for  the  brush  of 
1812,  "  we  did  not  think  much  about  that";  and  everybody 
knows  that  the  Mexican  business  did  not  concern  us  much, 
except  in  its  political  relations.  No !  war  is  a  new  thing  to 
all  of  us  who  are  not  in  the  last  quarter  of  their  century. 
We  are  learning  many  strange  matters  from  our  fresh 
experience.  And  besides,  there  are  new  conditions  of  ex 
istence  which  make  war  as  it  is  with  us  very  different  from 
war  as  it  has  been. 

The  first  and  obvious  difference  consists  in  the  fact  that 
the  whole  nation  is  now  penetrated  by  the  ramifications  of 
a  network  of  iron  nerves  which  flash  sensation  and  volition 
backward  and  forward  to  and  from  towns  and  provinces  as 
if  they  were  organs  and  limbs  of  a  single  living  body.  The 
second  is  the  vast  system  of  iron  muscles  which,  as  it  were, 
move  the  limbs  of  the  mighty  organism  one  upon  another. 
What  was  the  railroad-force  which  put  the  Sixth  Regiment 
in  Baltimore  on  the  iQth  of  April  but  a  contraction  and 
extension  of  the  arm  of  Massachusetts  with  a  clenched  fist 
full  of  bayonets  at  the  end  of  it? 

This  perpetual  intercommunication,  joined  to  the  power 
of  instantaneous  action,  keeps  us  always  alive  with  excite 
ment.  It  is  not  a  breathless  courier  who  comes  back  with 
the  report  from  an  army  we  have  lost  sight  of  for  a  month, 
nor  a  single  bulletin  which  tells  us  all  we  are  to  know  for 
a  week  of  some  great  engagement,  but  almost  hourly  para 
graphs,  laden  with  truth  or  falsehood  as  the  case  may  be, 
making  us  restless  always  for  the  last  fact  or  rumor  they 
are  telling.  And  so  of  the  movements  of  our  armies.  To- 


120  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

night  the  stout  lumbermen  of  Maine  are  encamped  under 
their  own  fragrant  pines.  In  a  score  or  two  of  hours  they 
are  among  the  tobacco-fields  and  the  slave-pens  of  Virginia. 
The  war  passion  burned  like  scattered  coals  of  fire  in  the 
households  of  Revolutionary  times ;  now  it  rushes  all 
through  the  land  like  a  flame  over  the  prairie.  And  this 
instant  diffusion  of  every  fact  and  feeling  produces  another 
singular  effect  in  the  equalizing  and  steadying  of  public 
opinion.  We  may  not  be  able  to  see  a  month  ahead  of  us ; 
but  as  to  what  has  passed  a  week  afterwards  it  is  as  thor 
oughly  talked  out  and  judged  as  it  would  have  been  in  a 
whole  season  before  our  national  nervous  system  was  or 
ganized. 

"  As  the  wild  tempest  wakes  the  slumbering  sea, 
Thou  only  teachest  all  that  man  can  be !  " 

We  indulged  in  the  above  apostrophe  to  War  in  a  Phi 
Beta  Kappa  poem  of  long  ago,  which  we^iked  better  before 
we  read  Mr.  Cutler's  beautiful  prolonged  lyric  delivered  at 
the  recent  anniversary  of  that  Society. 

Oftentimes,  in  paroxysms  of  peace  and  good-will  towards 
all  mankind,  we  have  felt  twinges  of  conscience  about  the 
passage, — especially  when  one  of  our  orators  showed  us 
that  a  ship  of  war  costs  as  much  to  build  and  keep  as  a  col 
lege,  and  that  every  port-hole  we  could  stop  would  give 
us  a  new  professor.  Now  we  begin  to  think  that  there  was 
some  meaning  in  our  poor  couplet.  War  has  taught  us, 
as  nothing  else  could,  what  we  can  be  and  are.  It  has 
exalted  our  manhood  and  our  womanhood,  and  driven  us 
all  back  upon  our  substantial  human  qualities,  for  a  long 
time  more  or  less  kept  out  of  sight  by  the  spirit  of  com 
merce,  the  love  of  art,  science,  or  literature,  or  other  quali 
ties  not  belonging  to  all  of  us  as  men  and  women. 

It  is  at  this  very  moment  doing  more  to  melt  away  the 


BREAD  AND  THE  NEWSPAPER  121 

petty  social  distinctions  which  keep  generous  souls  apart 
from  each  other,  than  the  preaching  of  the  Beloved  Disciple 
himself  would  do.  We  are  finding  out  that  not  only 
"  patriotism  is  eloquence,"  but  that  heroism  is  gentility.  All 
ranks  are  wonderfully  equalized  under  the  fire  of  a  masked 
battery.  The  plain  artisan  or  the  rough  fireman,  who  faces 
the  lead  and  iron  like  a  man,  is  the  truest  representative  we 
can  show  of  the  heroes  of  Crecy  and  Agincourt.  And  if 
one  of  our  fine  gentlemen  puts  off  his  straw-colored  kids 
and  stands  by  the  other,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  or  leads  him 
on  to  the  attack,  he  is  as  honorable  in  our  eyes  and  in  theirs 
as  if  he  were  ill-dressed  and  his  hands  were  soiled  with 
labor. 

Even  our  poor  "  Brahmins," — whom  a  critic  in  ground- 
glass  spectacles  (the  same  who  grasps  his  statistics  by  the 
blade  and  strikes  at  his  supposed  antagonist  with  the 
handle)  oddly  confounds  with  the  "bloated  aristocracy," 
whereas  they  are  very  commonly  pallid,  undervitalized,  shy, 
sensitive  creatures,  whose  only  birthright  is  an  aptitude  for 
learning, — even  these  poor  New  England  Brahmins  of  ours, 
subvirates  of  an  organizable  base  as  they  often  are,  count 
as  full  men,  if  their  courage  is  big  enough  for  the  uniform 
which  hangs  so  loosely  about  their  slender  figures. 

A  young  man  was  drowned  not  very  long  ago  in  the 
river  running  under  our  windows.  A  few  days  afterwards 
a  field-piece  was  dragged  to  the  water's  edge,  and  fired 
many  times  over  the  river.  We  asked  a  bystander,  who 
looked  like  a  fisherman,  what  that  was  for.  It  was  to 
"  break  the  gall,"  he  said,  and  so  bring  the  drowned  person 
to  the  surface.  A  strange  physiological  fancy  and  a  very 
odd  non  sequitur;  but  that  is  not  our  present  point.  A  good 
many  extraordinary  objects  do  really  come  to  the  surface 
when  the  great  guns  of  war  shake  the  waters,  as  when  they 
roared  over  Charleston  harbor. 


122  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

Treason  came  up,  hideous,  fit  only  to  be  huddled  into  its 
dishonorable  grave.  But  the  wrecks  of  precious  virtues, 
which  had  been  covered  with  the  waves  of  prosperity,  came 
up  also.  And  all  sorts  of  unexpected  and  unheard-of 
things,  which  had  lain  unseen  during  our  national  life  of 
fourscore  years,  came  up  and  are  coming  up  daily,  shaken 
from  their  bed  by  the  concussions  of  the  artillery  bellowing 
around  us. 

It  is  a  shame  to  own  it,  but  there  were  persons  other 
wise  respectable  not  unwilling  to  say  that  they  believed  the 
old  valor  of  Revolutionary  times  had  died  out  from  among 
us.  They  talked  about  our  own  Northern  people  as  the 
English  in  the  last  centuries  used  to  talk  about  the  French, — 
Goldsmith's  old  soldier,  it  may  be  remembered,  called  one 
Englishman  good  for  five  of  them.  As  Napoleon  spoke  of 
the  English,  again,  as  a  nation  of  shopkeepers,  so  these 
persons  affected  to  consider  the  multitude  of  their  country 
men  as  unwarlike  artisans, — forgetting  that  Paul  Revere 
taught  himself  the  value  of 'liberty  in  working  upon  gold, 
and  Nathanael  Greene  fitted  himself  to  shape  armies  in  the 
labor  of  forging  iron. 

These  persons  have  learned  better  now.  The  bravery 
of  our  free  working-people  was  overlaid,  but  not  smothered ; 
sunken,  but  not  drowned.  The  hands  which  had  been  busy 
conquering  the  elements  had  only  to  change  their  weapons 
and  their  adversaries,  and  they  were  as  ready  to  conquer 
the  masses  of  living  force  opposed  to  them  as  they  had 
been  to  build  towns,  to  dam  rivers,  to  hunt  whales,  to  har 
vest  ice,  to  hammer  brute  matter  into  every  shape  civiliza 
tion  can  ask  for. 

Another  great  fact  came  to  the  surface,  and  is  coming  up 
every  day  in  new  shapes, — that  we  are  one  people.  It  is 
easy  to  say  that  a  man  is  a  man  in  Maine  or  Minnesota, 
but  not  so  easy  to  feel  it,  all  through  our  bones  and  mar- 


BREAD  AND  THE  NEWSPAPER  123 

row.  The  camp  is  deprovincializing  us  very  fast.  Brave 
Winthrop,  marching  with  the  city  elegants,  seems  to  have 
been  a  little  startled  to  find  how  wonderfully  human  were 
the  hard-handed  men  of  the  Eighth  Massachusetts.  It 
takes  all  the  nonsense  out  of  everybody,  or  ought  to  do  it, 
to  see  how  fairly  the  real  manhood  of  a  country  is  dis 
tributed  over  its  surface.  And  then,  just  as  we  are  begin 
ning  to  think  our  own  soil  has  a  monopoly  of  heroes  as 
well  as  of  cotton,  up  turns  a  regiment  of  gallant  Irishmen, 
like  the  Sixty-ninth,  to  show  us  that  continental  provincial 
ism  is  as  bad  as  that  of  Coos  County,  New  Hampshire,  or 
of  Broadway,  New  York. 

Here,  too,  side  by  side  in  the  same  great  camp,  are  half 
a  dozen  chaplains,  representing  half  a  dozen  modes  of  re 
ligious  belief.  When  the  masked  battery  opens,  does  the 
"  Baptist "  Lieutenant  believe  in  his  heart  that  God  takes 
better  care  of  him  than  of  his  "  Congregationalist " 
Colonel?  Does  any  man  really  suppose,  that,  of  a  score 
of  noble  young  fellows  who  have  just  laid  down  their  lives 
for  their  country,  the  Homoousians  are  received  to  the  man 
sions  of  bliss,  and  the  Plomoiousians  translated  from  the 
battle-field  to  the  abodes  of  everlasting  woe?  War  not 
only  teaches  what  man  can  be,  but  it  teaches  also  what  he 
must  not  be.  He  must  not  be  a  bigot  and  a  fool  in  the 
presence  of  that  day  of  judgment  proclaimed  by  the  trum 
pet  which  calls  to  battle,  and  where  a  man  should  have  but 
two  thoughts :  to  do  his  duty,  and  trust  his  Maker.  Let 
our  brave  dead  come  back  from  the  fields  where  they  have 
fallen  for  law  and  liberty,  and  if  you  will  follow  them  to 
their  graves,  you  will  find  out  what  the  Broad  Church 
means ;  the  narrow  church  is  sparing  of  its  exclusive  for 
mulae  over  the  coffins  wrapped  in  the  flag  which  the  fallen 
heroes  had  defended!  Very  little  comparatively  do  we 
hear  at  such  times  of  the  dogmas  on  which  men  differ ;  very 


124.  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

much  of  the  faith  and  trust  in  which  all  sincere  Christians 
can  agree.  It  is  a  noble  lesson,  and  nothing  less  noisy  than 
the  voice  of  cannon  can  teach  it  so  that  it  shall  be  heard 
over  all  the  angry  cries  of  theological  disputants. 

Now,  too,  we  have  a  chance  to  test  the  sagacity  of  our 
friends,  and  to  get  at  their  principles  of  judgment.  Per 
haps  most  of  us  will  agree  that  our  faith  in  domestic 
prophets  has  been  diminished  by  the  experience  of  the  last 
six  months.  We  had  the  notable  predictions  attributed  to 
the  Secretary  of  State,  which  so  unpleasantly  refused  to 
fulfill  themselves.  We  were  infested  at  one  time  with  a  set 
of  ominous-looking  seers,  who  shook  their  heads  and  mut 
tered  obscurely  about  some  mighty  preparations  that  were 
making  to  substitute  the  rule  of  the  minority  for  that  of 
the  majority.  Organizations  were  darkly  hinted  at;  some 
thought  our  armories  would  be  seized;  and  there  are  not 
wanting  ancient  women  in  the  neighboring  University  town 
who  consider  that  the  country  was  saved  by  the  intrepid 
band  of  students  who  stood  guard,  night  after  night,  over 
the  G.  R.  cannon  and  the  pile  of  balls  in  the  Cambridge 
Arsenal. 

As  a  general  rule,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  the  best  prophecies 
are  those  which  the  sages  remember  after  the  event  pro 
phesied  of  has  come  to  pass,  and  remind  us  that  they  have 
made  long  ago.  Those  who  are  rash  enough  to  predict 
publicly  beforehand  commonly  give  us  what  they  hope,  or 
what  they  fear,  or  some  conclusion  from  an  abstraction  of 
their  own,  or  some  guess  founded  on  private  information 
not  half  so  good  as  what  everybody  gets  who  reads  the 
papers, — never  by  any  possibility  a  word  that  we  can  de 
pend  on,  simply  because  there  are  cobwebs  of  contingency 
between  every  to-day  and  to-morrow  that  no  field-glass  can 
penetrate  when  fifty  of  them  lie  woven  one  over  another. 
Prophesy  as  much  as  you  like,  but  always  hedge.  Say  that 


BREAD  AND  THE  NEWSPAPER  125 

you  think  the  rebels  are  weaker  than  is  commonly  supposed, 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  that  they  may  prove  to  be  even 
stronger  than  is  anticipated.  Say  what  you  like, — only 
don't  be  too  peremptory  and  dogmatic ;  we  know  that  wiser 
men  than  you  have  been  notoriously  deceived  in  their  pre 
dictions  in  this  very  matter. 

"Ibis  et  redibis  nunquam  in  bello  perihis." 

Let  that  be  your  model;  and  remember,  on  peril  of 
your  reputation  as  a  prophet,  not  to  put  a  stop  before  or 
after  the  nunquam. 

There  are  two  or  three  facts  connected  with  time,  be 
sides  that  already  referred  to,  which  strike  us  very  forcibly 
in  their  relation  to  the  great  events  passing  around  us.  We 
spoke  of  the  long  period  seeming  to  have  elapsed  since  this 
war  began.  The  buds  were  then  swelling  which  held  the 
leaves  that  are  still  green.  It  seems  as  old  as  Time  himself. 
We  cannot  fail  to  observe  how  the  mind  brings  together  the 
scenes  of  to-day  and  those  of  the  old  Revolution.  We  shut 
up  eighty  years  into  each  other  like  the  joints  of  a  pocket- 
telescope.  When  the  young  men  from  Middlesex  dropped 
in  Baltimore  the  other  day,  it  seemed,  to  bring  Lexington 
and  the  other  Nineteenth  of  April  close  to  us.  War  has 
always  been  the  mint  in  which  the  world's  history  has  been 
coined,  and  now  every  day  or  week  or  month  has  a  new 
medal  for  us.  It  was  Warren  that  the  first  impression  bore 
in  the  last  great  coinage;  if  it  is  Ellsworth  now,  the  new 
face  hardly  seems  fresher  than  the  old.  All  battle-fields 
are  alike  in  their  main  features.  The  young  fellows  who 
fell  in  our  earlier  struggle  seemed  like  old  men  to  us  until 
within  these  few  months;  now  we  remember  they  were 
like  these  fiery  youth  we  are  cheering  as  they  go  to  the 
fight ;  it  seems  as  if  the  grass  of  our  bloody  hillside  was 
crimsoned  but  yesterday,  and  the  cannon-ball  imbedded  in 


126  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

the  church-tower  would  feel  warm,  if  we  laid  our  hand 
upon  it. 

Nay,  in  this  our  quickened  life  we  feel  that  all  the  battles 
from  earliest  time  to  our  own  day,  where  Right  and  Wrong 
have  grappled,  are  but  one  great  battle,  varied  with  brief 
pauses  or  hasty  bivouacs  upon  the  field  of  conflict.  The 
issues  seem  to  vary,  but  it  is  always  a  right  against  a  claim, 
and,  however  the  struggle  of  the  hour  may  go,  a  movement 
onward  of  the  campaign,  which  uses  defeat  as  well  as  vic 
tory  to  serve  its  mighty  ends.  The  very  implements  of  our 
warfare  change  less  than  we  think.  Our  bullets  and  cannon- 
balls  have  lengthened  into  bolts  like  those  which  whistled 
out  of  old  arbalests.  Our  soldiers  fight  with  weapons,  such 
as  are  pictured  on  the  walls  of  Theban  tombs,  wearing  a 
newly  invented  head-gear  as  old  as  the  days  of  the 
Pyramids. 

Whatever  miseries  this  war  brings  upon  us,  it  is  making 
us  wiser,  and,  we  trust,  better.  Wiser,  for  we  are  learning 
our  weakness,  our  narrowness,  our  selfishness,  our  igno 
rance,  in  lessons  of  sorrow  and  shame.  Better,  because  all 
that  is  noble  in  men  and  women  is  demanded  by  the  time, 
and  our  people  are  rising  to  the  standard  the  time  calls  for. 
For  this  is  the  question  the  hour  is  putting  to  each  of  us: 
Are  you  ready,  if  need  be,  to  sacrifice  all  that  you  have  and 
hope  for  in  this  world,  that  the  generations  to  follow  you 
may  inherit  a  whole  country  whose  natural  conditions  shall 
be  peace,  and  not  a  broken  province  which  must  live  under 
the  perpetual  threat,  if  not  in  the  constant  presence,  of  war 
and  all  that  war  brings  with  it?  If  we  are  all  ready  for 
this  sacrifice,  battles  may  be  lost,  but  the  campaign  and  its 
grand  object  must  be  won. 

Heaven  is  very  kind  in  its  way  of  putting  questions  to 
mortals.  We  are  not  abruptly  asked  to  give  up  all  that  we 
most  care  for,  in  view  of  the  momentous  issues  before  us. 


BREAD  AND  THE  NEWSPAPER  127 

Perhaps  we  shall  never  be  asked  to  give  up  all,  but  we  have 
already  been  called  upon  to  part  with  much  that  is  dear  to 
us,  and  should  be  ready  to  yield  the  rest  as  it  is  called  for. 
The  time  may  come  when  even  the  cheap  public  print  shall 
be  a  burden  our  means  cannot  support,  and  we  can  only 
listen  in  the  square  that  was  once  the  market-place  to  the 
voices  of  those  who  proclaim  defeat  or  victory.  Then  there 
will  be  only  our  daily  food  left.  When  we  have  nothing  to 
read  and  nothing  to  eat,  it  will  be  a  favorable  moment  to 
offer  a  compromise.  At  present  we  have  all  that  nature 
absolutely  demands, — we  can  live  on  bread  and  the  news 
paper. 


WALKING 
HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

I  WISH  to  speak  a  word  for  Nature,  for  absolute  freedom 
and  wildness,  as  contrasted  with  a  freedom  and  culture 
merely  civil, — to  regard  man  as  an  inhabitant,  or  a  part 
and  parcel  of  Nature,  rather  than  a  member  of  society.  I 
wish  to  make  an  extreme  statement,  if  so  I  may  make  an 
emphatic  one,  for  there  are  enough  champions  of  civiliza 
tion  :  the  minister  and  the  school-committee,  and  every  one 
of  you  will  take  care  of  that. 

I  have  met  with  but  one  or  two  persons  in  the  course  of 
my  life  who  understood  the  art  of  Walking,  that  is,  of  taking 
walks, — who  had  a  genius,  so  to  speak,  for  sauntering:  which 
word  is  beautifully  derived  from  "  idle  people  who  roved 
about  the  country,  -in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  asked  charity, 
under  pretense  of  going  a  la  Sainte  Terre,"  to  the  Holy 
Land,  till  the  children  exclaimed,  "  There  goes  a  Sainte- 
Terrcr,"  a  Saunterer, — a  Holy-Lander.  They  who  never 
go  to  the  Holy  Land  in  their  walks,  as  they  pretend,  are 
indeed  mere  idlers  and  vagabonds;  but  they  who  do  go 
there  are  saunterers  in  the  good  sense,  such  as  I  mean. 
Some,  however,  would  derive  the  word  from  sans  terre, 
without  land  or  a  home,  which,  therefore,  in  the  good  sense, 
will  mean,  having  no  particular  home,  but  equally  at  home 
everywhere.  For  this  is  the  secret  of  successful  sauntering. 
He  who  sits  still  in  a  house  all  the  time  may  be  the  greatest 
vagrant  of  all;  but  the  saunterer,  in  the  good  sense,  is  no 

128 


WALKING  129 

more  vagrant  than  the  meandering  river,  which  is  all  the 
while  sedulously  seeking  the  shortest  course  to  the  sea.  But 
I  prefer  the  first,  which,  indeed,  is  the  most  probable  deriva 
tion.  For  every  walk  is  a  sort  of  crusade,  preached  by  some 
Peter  the  Hermit  in  us,  to  go  forth  and  reconquer  this  Holy 
Land  from  the  hands  of  the  Infidels. 

It  is  true,  we  are  but  faint-hearted  crusaders,  even  the 
walkers,  nowadays,  who  undertake  no  persevering,  never- 
ending  enterprises.  Our  expeditions  are  but  tours,  and 
come  round  again  at  evening  to  the  old  hearth-side  from 
which  we  set  out.  Half  the  walk  is  but  retracing  our  steps. 
We  should  go  forth  on  the  shortest  walk,  perchance,  in  the 
spirit  of  undying  adventure,  never  to  return, — prepared  to 
send  back  our  embalmed  hearts  only  as  relics  to  our  deso 
late  kingdoms.  If  you  are  ready  to  leave  father  and  mother, 
and  brother  and  sister,  and  wife  and  child  and  friends,  and 
never  see  them  again, — if  you  have  paid  your  debts,  and 
made  your  will,  and  settled  all  your  affairs,  and  are  a  free 
man,  then  you  are  ready  for  a  walk. 

To  come  down  to  my  own  experience,  my  companion  and 
I,  for  I  sometimes  have  a  companion,  take  pleasure  in  fancy 
ing  ourselves  knights  of  a  new,  or  rather  an  old,  order, — 
not  Equestrians  or  Chevaliers,  not  Ritters  or  riders,  but 
Walkers,  a  still  more  ancient  and  honorable  class,  I  trust. 
The  chivalric  and  heroic  spirit  which  once  belonged  to  the 
Rider  seems  now  to  reside  in,  or  perchance  to  have  subsided 
into,  the  Walker, — not  the  Knight,  but  Walker  Errant. 
He  is  a  sort  of  fourth  estate,  outside  of  Church  and  State 
and  People. 

We  have  felt  that  we  almost  alone  hereabouts  practiced 
this  noble  art;  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  at  least,  if  their  own 
assertions  are  to  be  received,  most  of  my  townsmen  would 
fain  walk  sometimes,  as  I  do,  but  they  cannot.  No  wealth 
can  buy  the  requisite  leisure,  freedom,  and  independence, 


130  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

which  are  the  capital  in  this  profession.  It  comes  only  by 
the  grace  of  God.  It  requires  a  direct  dispensation  from 
Heaven  to  become  a  walker.  You  must  be  born  into  the 
family  of  the  Walkers.  Ambulator  nascitur,  non  fit.  Some 
of  my  townsmen,  it  is  true,  can  remember  and  have  described 
to  me  some  walks  which  they  took  ten  years  ago,  in  which 
they  were  so  blessed  as  to  lose  themselves  for  half  an  hour 
in  the  woods ;  but  I  know  very  well  that  they  have  confined 
themselves  to  the  highway  ever  since,  whatever  pretensions 
they  may  make  to  belong  to  this  select  class.  No  doubt  they 
were  elevated  for  a  moment  as  by  the  reminiscence  of  a 
previous  state  of  existence,  when  even  they  were  foresters 
and  outlaws. 

"  When  he  came  to  grene  wode, 

In  a  mery  mornynge, 
There  he  herde  the  notes  small 
Of  byrdes  mery  syngynge. 

"  It   is    ferre   gone,    sayd   Robyn, 

That  I  was  last  here; 
Me  lyste  a  lytell  for  to  shote 
At  the  donne  dere." 

I  think  that  I  cannot  preserve  my  health  and  spirits, 
unless  I  spend  four  hours  a  day  at  least, — and  it  is  com 
monly  more  than  that, — sauntering  through  the  woods  and 
over  the  hills  and  fields,  absolutely  free  from  all  worldly 
engagements.  You  may  safely  say,  A  penny  for  your 
thoughts,  or  a  thousand  pounds.  When  sometimes  I  am 
reminded  that  the  mechanics  and  shopkeepers  stay  in  their 
shops  not  only  all  the  forenoon,  but  all  the  afternoon  too, 
sitting  with  crossed  legs,  so  many  of  them, — as  if  the  legs 
were  made  to  sit  upon,  and  not  to  stand  or  walk  upon, — I 
think  that  they  deserve  some  credit  for  not  having  all  com 
mitted  suicide  long  ago. 

I,  who  cannot  stay  in  my  chamber  for  a  single  day  with- 


WALKING  131 

out  acquiring  some  rust,  and  when  sometimes  I  have  stolen 
forth  for  a  walk  at  the  eleventh  hour  of  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  too  late  to  redeem  the  day,  when  the  shades  of 
night  were  already  beginning  to  be  mingled  with  the  day 
light,  have  felt  as  if  I  had  committed  some  sin  to  be  atoned 
for, — I  confess  that  I  am  astonished  at  the  power  of  en 
durance,  to  say  nothing  of  the  moral  insensibility,  of  my 
neighbors  who  confine  themselves  to  shops  and  offices  the 
whole  day  for  weeks  and  months,  ay,  and  years  almost  to 
gether.  I  know  not  what  manner  of  stuff  they  are  of, — 
sitting  there  now  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  as  if  it 
were  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Bonaparte  may  talk  of 
the  three-o'clock-in-the-morning  courage,  but  it  is  nothing 
to  the  courage  which  can  sit  down  cheerfully  at  this  hour 
in  the  afternoon  over  against  one's  self  whom  you  have 
known  all  the  morning,  to  starve  out  a  garrison  to  whom 
you  are  bound  by  such  strong  ties  of  sympathy.  I  wonder 
that  about  this  time,  or  say  between  four  and  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  too  late  for  the  morning  papers  and  too 
early  for  the  evening  ones,  there  is  not  a  general  explosion 
heard  up  and  down  the  street,  scattering  a  legion  of  anti 
quated  and  house-bred  notions  and  whims  to  the  four  winds 
for  an  airing, — and  so  the  evil  cure  itself. 

How  womankind,  who  are  confined  to  the  house  still  more 
than  men,  stand  it  I  do  not  know;  but  I  have  ground  to 
suspect  that  most  of  them  do  not  stand  it  at  all.  When, 
early  in  a  summer  afternoon,  we  have  been  shaking  the 
dust  of  the  village  from  the  skirts  of  our  garments,  making 
haste  past  those  houses  with  purely  Doric  or  Gothic  fronts, 
which  have  such  an  air  of  repose  about  them,  my  com 
panion  whispers  that  probably  about  these  times  their  occu 
pants  are  all  gone  to  bed.  Then  it  is  that  I  appreciate  the 
beauty  and  the  glory  of  architecture,  which  itself  never 


132  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

turns  in,  but  forever  stands  out  and  erect,  keeping  watch 
over  the  slumberers. 

No  doubt  temperament,  and,  above  all,  age,  have  a  good 
deal  to  do  with  it.  As  a  man  grows  older,  his  ability  to 
sit  still  and  follow  indoor  occupations  increases.  He  grows 
vespertinal  in  his  habits  as  the  evening  of  life  approaches, 
till  at  last  he  comes  forth  only  just  before  sundown,  and 
gets  all  the  walk  that  he  requires  in  half  an  hour. 

But  the  walking  of  which  I  speak  has  nothing  in  it  akin 
to  taking  exercise,  as  it  is  called,  as  the  sick  take  medicine 
at  stated  hours, — as  the  swinging  of  dumb-bells  or  chairs; 
but  is  itself  the  enterprise  and  adventure  of  the  day.  If  you 
would  get  exercise,  go  in  search  of  the  springs  of  life. 
Think  of  a  man's  swinging  dumb-bells  for  his  health,  when 
those  springs  are  bubbling  up  in  far-off  pastures  unsought 
by  him ! 

Moreover,  you  must  walk  like  a  camel,  which  is  said  to 
be  the  only  beast  which  ruminates  when  walking.  When  a 
traveler  asked  Wordsworth's  servant  to  show  him  her  mas 
ter's  study,  she  answered,  "  Here  is  his  library,  but  his 
study  is  out  of  doors." 

Living  much  out  of  doors,  in  the  sun  and  wind,  will  no 
doubt  produce  a  certain  roughness  of  character, — will  cause 
a  thicker  cuticle  to  grow  over  some  of  the  finer  qualities 
of  our  nature,  as  on  the  face  and  hands,  or  as  severe  manual 
labor  robs  the  hands  of  some  of  their  delicacy  of  touch.  So 
staying  in  the  house,  on  the  other  hand,  may  produce  a  soft 
ness  and  smoothness,  not  to  say  thinness  of  skin,  accom 
panied  by  an  increased  sensibility  to  certain  impressions. 
Perhaps  we  should  be  more  susceptible  to  some  influences 
important  to  our  intellectual  and  moral  growth,  if  the  sun 
had  shone  and  the  wind  blown  on  us  a  little  less;  and  no 
doubt  it  is  a  nice  matter  to  proportion  rightly  the  thick 
and  thin  skin.  But  methinks  that  is  a  scurf  that  will  fall 


WALKING  133 

off  fast  enough, — that  the  natural  remedy  is  to  be  found 
in  the  proportion  which  the  night  bears  to  the  day,  the 
winter  to  the  summer,  thought  to  experience.  There  will  be 
so  much  the  more  air  and  sunshine  in  our  thoughts.  The 
callous  palms  of  the  laborer  are  conversant  with  finer  tissues 
of  self-respect  and  heroism,  whose  touch  thrills  the  heart, 
than  the  languid  fingers  of  idleness.  That  is  mere  senti 
mentality  that  lies  abed  by  day  and  thinks  itself  white,  far 
from  the  tan  and  callus  of  experience. 

When  we  walk,  we  naturally  go  to  the  fields  and  woods : 
what  would  become  of  us,  if  we  walked  only  in  a  garden 
or  a  mall?  Even  some  sects  of  philosophers  have  felt  the 
necessity  of  importing  the  woods  to  themselves,  since  they 
did  not  go  to  the  woods.  "  They  planted  groves  and  walks 
of  Platanes,"  where  they  took  subdiales  ambulationes  in  por 
ticos  open  to  the  air.  Of  course  it  is  of  no  use  to  direct 
our  steps  to  the  woods,  if  they  do  not  carry  us  thither.  I 
am  alarmed  when  it  happens  that  I  have  walked  a  mile  into 
the  woods  bodily,  without  getting  there  in  spirit.  In  my 
afternoon  walk  I  would  fain  forget  all  my  morning  occupa 
tions  and  my  obligations  to  society.  But  it  sometimes  hap 
pens  that  I  cannot  easily  shake  off  the  village.  The  thought 
of  some  work  will  run  in  my  head,  and  I  am  not  where  my 
body  is, — I  am  out  of  my  senses.  In  my  walks  I  would 
fain  return  to  my  senses.  What  business  have  I  in  the 
woods,  if  I  am  thinking  of  something  out  of  the  woods? 
I  suspect  myself,  and  cannot  help  a  shudder,  when  I  find 
myself  so  implicated  even  in  what  are  called  good  works, — 
for  this  may  sometimes  happen. 

My  vicinity  affords  many  good  walks ;  and  though  for  so 
many  years  I  have  walked  almost  every  day,  and  sometimes 
for  several  days  together,  I  have  not  yet  exhausted  them. 
An  absolutely  new  prospect  is  a  great  happiness,  and  I  can 
still  get  this  any  afternoon.  Two  or  three  hours'  walking 


134  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

will  carry  me  to  as  strange  a  country  as  I  expect  ever  to  see. 
A  single  farmhouse  which  I  had  not  seen  before  is  some 
times  as  good  as  the  dominions  of  the  King  of  Dahomey. 
There  is  in  fact  a  sort  of  harmony  discoverable  between 
the  capabilities  of  the  landscape  within  a  circle  of  ten  miles' 
radius,  or  the  limits  of  an  afternoon  walk,  and  the  three 
score  years  and  ten  of  human  life.  It  will  never  become 
quite  familiar  to  you. 

Nowadays  almost  all  man's  improvements,  so  called,  as 
the  building  of  houses,  and  the  cutting  down  of  the  forest 
and  of  all  large  trees,  simply  deform  the  landscape,  and 
make  it  more  and  more  tame  and  cheap.  A  people  who 
would  begin  by  burning  the  fences  and  let  the  forest  stand ! 
I  saw  the  fences  half  consumed,  their  ends  lost  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  prairie,  and  some  worldly  miser  with  a  surveyor 
looking  after  his  bounds,  while  heaven  had  taken  place 
around  him,  and  he  did  not  see  the  angels  going  to  and  fro, 
but  was  looking  for  an  old  post-hole  in  the  midst  of  para 
dise.  I  looked  again,  and  saw  him  standing  in  the  middle 
of  a  boggy,  stygian  fen,  surrounded  by  devils,  and  he  had 
found  his  bounds  without  a  doubt,  three  little  stones,  where 
a  stake  had  been  driven,  and  looking  nearer,  I  saw  that  the 
Prince  of  Darkness  was  his  surveyor. 

I  can  easily  walk  ten,  fifteen,  twenty,  any  number  of 
miles,  commencing  at  my  own  door,  without  going  by  any 
house,  without  crossing  a  road  except  where  the  fox  and 
the  mink  do :  first  along  by  the  river,  and  then  the  brook, 
and  then  the  meadow  and  the  woodside.  There  are  square 
miles  in  my  vicinity  which  have  no  inhabitant.  From  many 
a  hill  I  can  see  civilization  and  the  abodes  of  man  afar.  The 
farmers  and  their  works  are  scarcely  more  obvious  than 
woodchucks  and  their  burrows.  Man  and  his  affairs, 
church  and  state  and  school,  trade  and  commerce,  and 
manufactures  and  agriculture,  even  politics,  the  most  alarm- 


WALKING  135 

ing  of  them  all, — I  am  pleased  to  see  how  little  space  they 
occupy  in  the  landscape.  Politics  is  but  a  narrow  field,  and 
that  still  narrower  highway  yonder  leads  to  it.  I  some 
times  direct  the  traveler  thither.  If  you  would  go  to  the 
political  world,  follow  the  great  road, — follow  that  market- 
man,  keep  his  dust  in  your  eyes,  and  it  will  lead  you 
straight  to  it;  for  it,  too,  has  its  place  merely,  and  does 
not  occupy  all  space.  I  pass  from  it  as  from  a  bean-field 
into  the  forest,  and  it  is  forgotten.  In  one  half-hour  I  can 
walk  off  to  some  portion  of  the  earth's  surface  where  a 
man  does  not  stand  from  one  year's  end  to  another,  and 
there,  consequently,  politics  are  not,  for  they  are  but  as  the 
cigar-smoke  of  a  man. 

The  village  is  the  place  to  which  the  roads  tend,  a  sort 
of  expansion  of  the  highway,  as  a  lake  of  a  river.  It  is 
the  body  of  which  roads  are  the  arms  and  legs, — a  trivial 
or  quadrivial  place,  the  thoroughfare  and  ordinary  of  trav 
elers.  The  word  is  from  the  Latin  villa,  which,  together 
with  via,  a  way,  or  more  anciently  ved  and  vella,  Varro 
derives  from  veho,  to  carry,  because  the  villa  is  the  place 
to  and  from  which  things  are  carried.  They  who  got  their 
living  by  teaming  were  said  vellaturam  facere.  Hence,  too, 
apparently,  the  Latin  word  vilis  and  our  vile;  also  villain. 
This  suggests  what  kind  of  degeneracy  villagers  are  liable 
to.  They  are  wayworn  by  the  travel  that  goes  by  and  over 
them,  without  traveling  themselves. 

Some  do  not  walk  at  all;  others  walk  in  the  highways; 
a  few  walk  across  lots.  Roads  are  made  for  horses  and 
men  of  business.  I  do  not  travel  in  them  much,  compara 
tively,  because  I  am  not  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  any  tavern  or 
grocery  or  livery-stable  or  depot  to  which  they  lead.  I 
am  a  good  horse  to  travel,  but  not  from  choice  a  roadster. 
The  landscape-painter  uses  the  figures  of  men  to  mark  a 
road.  He  would  not  make  that  use  of  my  figure.  I  walk 


136  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

out  into  a  Nature  such  as  the  old  prophets  and  poets,  Menu, 
Moses,  Homer,  Chaucer,  walked  in.  You  may  name  it 
America,  but  it  is  not  America  :  neither  Americus  Vespucius, 
nor  Columbus,  nor  the  rest  were  the  discoverers  of  it. 
There  is  a  truer  account  of  it  in  mythology  than  in  any  his 
tory  of  America,  so  called,  that  I  have  seen. 

However,  there  are  a  few  old  roads  that  may  be  trodden 
with  profit,  as  if  they  led  somewhere  now  that  they  are 
nearly  discontinued.  There  is  the  Old  Marlborough  Road, 
which  does  not  go  to  Marlborough  now,  methinks,  unless 
that  is  Marlborough  where  it  carries  me.  I  am  the  bolder 
to  speak  of  it  here,  because  I  presume  that  there  are  one  or 
two  such  roads  in  every  town. 

THE  OLD  MARLBOROUGH  ROAD. 

Where  they  once  dug  for  money, 

But  never  found  any ; 

Where  sometimes  Martial  Miles 

Singly  files, 

And  Elijah  WTood, 

I  fear  for  no  good: 

No  other  man, 

Save  Elisha  Dugan, — 

O  man  of  wild  habits, 

Partridges  and  rabbits, 

Who  hast  no  cares 

Only  to  set  snares, 

Who  liv'st  all  alone, 

Close  to  the  bone, 

And  where  life  is  sweetest 

Constantly  eatest. 
When  the  spring  stirs  my  blood 
With  the  instinct   to  travel, 
I  can  get  enough  gravel 
On  the  Old  Marlborough  Road. 

Nobody  repairs  it, 

For  nobody  wears  it ; 

It  is  a  living  way, 

As    the    Christians    say. 


WALKING  137 

Not   many  there  be 

Who  enter  therein, 
Only  the  guests  of  the 

Irishman  Quin. 
What  is  it,  what  is  it, 

But  a   direction   out  there, 
And  the  bare  possibility 
Of  going  somewhere? 

Great  guideboards  of  stone, 

But  travelers  none ; 

Cenotaphs  of  the  towns 

Named  on  their  crowns. 

It  is  worth  going  to  see 

Where  you  might  be. 

What  king 

Did  the  thing, 

I  am  still  wondering; 

Set  up  how  or  when, 

By  what  selectmen, 

Gourgas  or  Lee, 

Clark  or  Darby? 

They're  a  great  endeavor 

To  be  something  forever; 

Blank  tablets  of  stone, 

Where  a  traveler  might  groan, 

And  in  one  sentence 

Grave  all  that  is  known ; 

Which  another  might  read, 

In  his  extreme  need. 

I  know  one  or  two 

Lines  that  would  do, 

Literature  that  might  stand 

All  over  the  land, 

Which  a  man  could  remember 

Till  next  December, 

And  read  again  in  the  spring, 

After  the  thawing. 
If  with  fancy  unfurled 

You  leave  your  abode, 
You  may  go  round  the  world 
By  the  Old  Marlborough  Road. 

At  present,  in  this  vicinity,  the  best  part  of  the  land  is 
not  private  property;  the  landscape  is  not  owned,  and  the 


138  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

walker  enjoys  comparative  freedom.  But  possibly  the  day 
will  come  when  it  will  be  partitioned  off  into  so-called 
pleasure-grounds,  in  which  a  few  will  take  a  narrow  and 
exclusive  pleasure  only, — when  fences  shall  be  multiplied, 
and  man-traps  and  other  engines  invented  to  confine  men  to 
the  public  road,  and  walking  over  the  surface  of  God's  earth 
shall  be  construed  to  mean  trespassing  on  some  gentleman's 
grounds.  To  enjoy  a  thing  exclusively  is  commonly  to  ex 
clude  yourself  from  the  true  enjoyment  of  it.  Let  us  im 
prove  our  opportunities,  then,  before  the  evil  days  come. 

What  is  it  that  makes  it  so  hard  sometimes  to  determine 
whither  we  will  walk  ?  I  believe  that  there  is  a  subtile  mag 
netism  in  Nature,  which,  if  we  unconsciously  yield  to  it,  will 
direct  us  aright.  It  is  not  indifferent  to  us  which  way  we 
walk.  There  is  a  right  way;  but  we  are  very  liable  from 
heedlessness  and  stupidity  to  take  the  wrong  one.  We 
would  fain  take  that  walk,  never  yet  taken  by  us  through 
this  actual  world,  which  is  perfectly  symbolical  of  the  path 
which  we  love  to  travel  in  the  interior  and  ideal  world ;  and 
sometimes,  no  doubt,  we  find  it  difficult  to  choose  our  direc 
tion,  because  it  does  not  yet  exist  distinctly  in  our  idea. 

When  I  go  out  of  the  house  for  a  walk,  uncertain  as  yet 
whither  I  will  bend  my  steps,  and  submit  myself  to  my  in 
stinct  to  decide  for  me,  I  find,  strange  and  whimsical  as  it 
may  seem,  that  I  finally  and  inevitably  settle  southwest, 
toward  some  particular  wood  or  meadow  or  deserted  pas 
ture  or  hill  in  that  direction.  My  needle  is  slow  to  settle, — 
varies  a  few  degrees,  and  does  not  always  point  due  south 
west,  it  is  true,  and  it  has  good  authority  for  this  variation, 
but  it  always  settles  between  west  and  south-south-west. 
The  future  lies  that  way  to  me,  and  the  earth  seems  more 
unexhausted  and  richer  on  that  side.  The  outline  which 
would  bound  my  walks  would  be,  not  a  circle,  but  a 


WALKING  139 

parabola,  or  rather  like  one  of  those  cometary  orbits 
which  have  been  thought  to  be  non-returning  curves,  in 
this  case  opening  westward,  in  which  my  house  occupies 
the  place  of  the  sun.  I  turn  round  and  round  irresolute 
sometimes  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  until  I  decide,  for  a 
thousandth  time,  that  I  will  walk  into  the  southwest  or  west. 
Eastward  I  go  only  by  force;  but  westward  I  go  free. 
Thither  no  business  leads  me.  It  is  hard  for  me  to  believe 
that  I  shall  find  fair  landscapes  or  sufficient  wildness  and 
freedom  behind  the  eastern  horizon.  I  am  not  excited  by 
the  prospect  of  a  walk  thither ;  but  I  believe  that  the  forest 
which  I  see  in  the  western  horizon  stretches  uninterruptedly 
toward  the  setting  sun,  and  there  are  no  towns  nor  cities  in 
it  of  enough  consequence  to  disturb  me.  Let  me  live  where 
I  will,  on  this  side  is  the  city,  on  that  the  wilderness,  and 
ever  I  am  leaving  the  city  more  and  more,  and  withdrawing 
into  the  wilderness.  I  should  not  lay  so  much  stress  on  this 
fact,  if  I  did  not  believe  that  something  like  this  is  the  pre 
vailing  tendency  of  my  countrymen.  I  must  walk  toward 
Oregon,  and  not  toward  Europe.  And  that  way  the  nation 
is  moving,  and  I  may  say  that  mankind  progress  from  east  to 
west.  Within  a  few  years  we  have  witnessed  the  phe 
nomenon  of  a  southeastward  migration,  in  the  settlement  of 
Australia ;  but  this  affects  us  as  a  retrograde  movement,  and 
judging  from  the  moral  and  physical  character  of  the  first 
generation  of  Australians,  has  not  yet  proved  a  successful 
experiment.  The  eastern  Tartars  think  that  there  is  nothing 
west  beyond  Thibet.  "  The  world  ends  there,"  say  they, 
"  beyond  there  is  nothing  but  a  shoreless  sea."  It  is  unmiti 
gated  East  where  they  live. 

We  go  eastward  to  realize  history  and  study  the  works 
of  art  and  literature,  retracing  the  steps  of  the  race;  we 
go  westward  as  into  the  future,  with  a  spirit  of  enterprise 
and  adventure.  The  Atlantic  is  a  Lethean  stream,  in  our  pas- 


140  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

sage  over  which  we  have  had  an  opportunity  to  forget  the 
Old  World  and  its  institutions.  If  we  do  not  succeed  this 
time,  there  is  perhaps  one  more  chance  for  the  race  left  be 
fore  it  arrives  on  the  banks  of  the  Styx;  and  that  is  in  the 
Lethe  of  the  Pacific,  which  is  three  times  as  wide. 

I  know  not  how  significant  it  is,  or  how  far  it  is  an  evi 
dence  of  singularity,  that  an  individual  should  thus  consent 
in  his  pettiest  walk  with  the  general  movement  of  the  race ; 
but  I  know  that  something  akin  to  the  migratory  instinct  in 
birds  and  quadrupeds, — which,  in  some  instances,  is  known 
to  have  affected  the  squirrel  tribe,  impelling  them  to  a  gen 
eral  and  mysterious  movement,  in  which  they  were  seen,  say 
some,  crossing  the  broadest  rivers,  each  on  its  particular 
chip,  with  its  tail  raised  for  a  sail,  and  bridging  narrower 
streams  with  their  dead, — that  something  like  the  furor 
which  affects  the  domestic  cattle  in  the  spring,  and  which  is 
referred  to  a  worm  in  their  tails, — affects  both  nations 
and  individuals,  either  perennially  or  from  time  to  time. 
Not  a  flock  of  wild  geese  cackles  over  our  town,  but  it  to 
some  extent  unsettles  the  value  of  real  estate  here,  and,  if 
I  were  a  broker,  I  should  probably  take  that  disturbance  into 
account. 

"  Than  longen  folk  to  gon  on  pilgrimages, 
And  palmeres  for  to  seken  strange  strondes." 

Every  sunset  which  I  witness  inspires  me  with  the  desire 
to  go  to  a  West  as  distant  and  as  fair  as  that  into  which 
the  sun  goes  down.  He  appears  to  migrate  westward  daily, 
and  tempt  us  to  follow  him.  He  is  the  Great  Western 
Pioneer  whom  the  nations  follow.  We  dream  all  night  of 
those  mountain-ridges  in  the  horizon,  though  they  may  be 
of  vapor  only,  which  were  last  gilded  by  his  rays.  The 
island  of  Atlantis,  and  the  islands  and  gardens  of  the 
Hesperides,  a  sort  of  terrestrial  paradise,  appear  to  have 


WALKING  141 

been  the  Great  West  of  the  ancients,  enveloped  in  mys 
tery  and  poetry.  Who  has  not  seen  in  imagination,  when 
looking  into  the  sunset  sky,  the  gardens  of  the  Hesperides, 
and  the  foundation  of  all  those  fables  ? 

Columbus  felt  the  westward  tendency  more  strongly  than 
any  before.  He  obeyed  it,  and  found  a  New  World  for 
Castile  and  Leon.  The  herd  of  men  in  those  days  scented 
fresh  pastures  from  afar. 

"  And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropped  into  the  western  bay; 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue; 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new." 

Where  on  the  globe  can  there  be  found  an  area  of  equal 
extent  with  that  occupied  by  the  bulk  of  our  States,  so 
fertile  and  so  rich  and  varied  in  its  productions,  and  at  the 
same  time  so  habitable  by  the  European,  as  this  is? 
Michaux,  who  knew  but  part  of  them,  says  that  "  the  species 
of  large  trees  are  much  more  numerous  in  North  America 
than  in  Europe ;  in  the  United  States  there  are  more  than  one 
hundred  and  forty  species  that  exceed  thirty  feet  in  height ; 
in  France  there  are  but  thirty  that  attain  this  size."  Later 
botanists  more  than  confirm  his  observations.  Humboldt 
came  to  America  to  realize  his  youthful  dreams  of  a 
tropical  vegetation,  and  he  beheld  it  in  its  greatest  per 
fection  in  the  primitive  forests  of  the  Amazon,  the  most 
gigantic  wilderness  on  the  earth,  which  he  has  so  eloquently 
described.  The  geographer  Guyot,  himself  a  European, 
goes  farther, — farther  than  I  am  ready  to  follow  him;  yet 
not  when  he  says, — "  As  the  plant  is  made  for  the  animal,  as 
the  vegetable  world  is  made  for  the  animal  world,  America 
is  made  for  the  man  of  the  Old  World.  .  .  .  The  man  of 
the  Old  World  sets  out  upon  his  way.  Leaving  the  high 
lands  of  Asia,  he  descends  from  station  to  station  towards 
Europe.  Each  of  his  steps  is  marked  by  a  new  civilization 


142  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

superior  to  the  preceding,  by  a  greater  power  of  develop 
ment  Arrived  at  the  Atlantic,  he  pauses  on  the  shore  of  this 
unknown  ocean,  the  bounds  of  which  he  knows  not,  and 
turns  upon  his  footprints  for  an  instant."  When  he  has 
exhausted  the  rich  soil  of  Europe,  and  reinvigorated  him 
self,  "  then  recommences  his  adventurous  career  westward 
as  in  the  earliest  ages."  So  far  Guyot. 

From  this  western  impulse  coming  in  contact  with  the 
barrier  of  the  Atlantic  sprang  the  commerce  and  enterprise 
of  modern  times.  The  younger  Michaux,  in  his  Travels 
West  of  the  Alleghanies  in  1802,  says  that  the  common  in 
quiry  in  the  newly  settled  West  was,  "  '  From  what  part 
of  the  world  have  you  come? '  As  if  these  vast  and  fertile 
regions  would  naturally  be  the  place  of  meeting  and  com 
mon  country  of  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  globe." 

To  use  an  obsolete  Latin  word,  I  might  say,  Ex  Orient? 
lux;  ex  Occidente  FRUX.  From  the  East  light;  from  the 
West  fruit. 

Sir  Francis  Head,  an  English  traveler  and  a  Governor- 
General  of  Canada,  tells  us  that  "  in  both  the  northern  and 
southern  hemispheres  of  the  New  World,  Nature  has  not 
only  outlined  her  works  on  a  larger  scale,  but  has  painted 
the  whole  picture  with  brighter  and  more  costly  colors  than 
she  used  in  delineating  and  in  beautifying  the  Old  World. 
.  .  .  The  heavens  of  America  appear  infinitely  higher,  the 
sky  is  bluer,  the  air  is  fresher,  the  cold  is  intenser,  the  moon 
looks  larger,  the  stars  are  brighter,  the  thunder  is  louder,  the 
lightning  is  vivider,  the  wind  is  stronger,  the  rain  is  heavier, 
the  mountains  are  higher,  the  rivers  longer,  the  forests 
bigger,  the  plains  broader."  This  statement  will  do  at  least 
to  set  against  Buffon's  account  of  this  part  of  the  world  and 
its  productions. 

Linnaeus  said  long  ago,  "  Nescio  quse  facies  lata,  glabra 
plantis  Americanis:  I  know  not  what  there  is  of  joyous  and 


WALKING  143 

smooth  in  the  aspect  of  American  plants ;  "  and  I  think  that 
in  this  country  there  are  no,  or  at  most  very  few,  Africans 
bestice,  African  beasts,  as  the  Romans  called  them,  and  that 
in  this  respect  also  it  is  peculiarly  fitted  for  the  habitation 
of  man.  We  are  told  that  within  three  miles  of  the  center 
of  the  East-Indian  city  of  Singapore,  some  of  the  in 
habitants  are  annually  carried  off  by  tigers ;  but  the  traveler 
can  lie  down  in  the  woods  at  night  almost  anywhere  in  North 
America  without  fear  of  wild  beasts. 

These  are  encouraging  testimonies.  If  the  moon  looks 
larger  here  than  in  Europe,  probably  the  sun  looks  larger 
also.  If  the  heavens  of  America  appear  infinitely  higher, 
and  the  stars  brighter,  I  trust  that  these  facts  are  symbolical 
of  the  height  to  which  the  philosophy  and  poetry  and  re 
ligion  of  her  inhabitants  may  one  day  soar.  At  length,  per 
chance,  the  immaterial  heaven  will  appear  as  much  higher 
to  the  American  mind,  and  the  intimations  that  star  it  as 
much  brighter.  For  I  believe  that  climate  does  thus  react  on 
man, — as  there  is  something  in  the  mountain-air  that  feeds 
the  spirit  and  inspires.  Will  not  man  grow  to  greater  per 
fection  intellectually  as  well  as  physically  under  these  in 
fluences  ?  Or  is  it  unimportant  how  many  foggy  days  there 
are  in  his  life?  I  trust  that  we  shall  be  more  imaginative, 
that  our  thoughts  will  be  clearer,  fresher,  and  more  ethereal, 
as  our  sky, — our  understanding  more  comprehensive  and 
broader,  like  our  plains, — our  intellect  generally  on  a 
grander  scale,  like  our  thunder  and  lightning,  our  rivers  and 
mountains  and  forests, — and  our  hearts  shall  even  cor 
respond  in  breadth  and  depth  and  grandeur  to  our  inland 
seas.  Perchance  there  will  appear  to  the  traveler  some 
thing,  he  knows  not  what,  of  Iceta  and  glabra,  of  joyous  and 
serene,  in  our  very  faces.  Else  to  what  end  does  the  world 
go  on,  and  why  was  America  discovered  ? 

To  Americans  I  hardly  need  to  say, — 


144  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

"  Westward  the  star  of  empire  takes  its  way." 

As  a  true  patriot,  I  should  be  ashamed  to  think  that  Adam 
in  paradise  was  more  favorably  situated  on  the  whole  than 
the  backwoodsman  in  this  country. 

Our  sympathies  in  Massachusetts  are  not  confined  to 
New  England;  though  we  may  be  estranged  from  the 
South,  we  sympathize  with  the  West.  There  is  the  home 
of  the  younger  sons,  as  among  the  Scandinavians  they  took 
to  the  sea  for  their  inheritance.  It  is  too  late  to  be  studying 
Hebrew;  it  is  more  important  to  understand  even  the 
slang  of  to-day. 

Some  months  ago  I  went  to  see  a  panorama  of  the  Rhine. 
It  was  like  a  dream  of  the  Middle  Ages.  I  floated  down  its 
historic  stream  in  something  more  than  imagination,  under 
bridges  built  by  the  Romans,  and  repaired  by  later  heroes, 
past  cities  and  castles  whose  very  names  were  music  to  my 
ears,  and  each  of  which  was  the  subject  of  a  legend. 
There  were  Ehrenbreitstein  and  Rolandseck  and  Coblentz, 
which  I  knew  only  in  history.  They  were  ruins  that  in 
terested  me  chiefly.  There  seemed  to  come  up  from  its 
waters  and  its  vine-clad  hills  and  valleys  a  hushed  music 
as  of  Crusaders  departing  for  the  Holy  Land.  I  floated 
along  under  the  spell  of  enchantment,  as  if  I  had  been 
transported  to  an  heroic  age,  and  breathed  an  atmosphere 
of  chivalry. 

Soon  after,  I  went  to  see  a  panorama  of  the  Mississippi, 
and  as  I  worked  my  way  up  the  river  in  the  light  of  to-day, 
and  saw  the  steamboats  wooding  up,  counted  the  rising 
cities,  gazed  on  the  fresh  ruins  of  Nauvoo,  beheld  the  In 
dians  moving  west  across  the  stream,  and,  as  before  I  had 
looked  up  the  Moselle  now  looked  up  the  Ohio  and  the 
Missouri,  and  heard  the  legends  of  Dubuque  and  of  We- 
nona's  Cliff, — still  thinking  more  of  the  future  than  of  the 


WALKING  145 

past  or  present, — I  saw  that  this  was  a  Rhine  stream  of  a 
different  kind;  that  the  foundations  of  castles  were  yet  to 
be  laid,  and  the  famous  bridges  were  yet  to  be  thrown  over 
the  river;  and  I  felt  that  this  was  the  heroic  age  itself, 
though  we  know  it  not,  for  the  hero  is  commonly  the 
simplest  and  obscurest  of  men. 

The  West  of  which  I  speak  is  but  another  name  for  the 
Wild;  and  what  I  have  been  preparing  to  say  is,  that  in 
Wildness  is  the  preservation  of  the  World.  Every  tree 
sends  its  fibers  forth  in  search  of  the  Wild.  The  cities 
import  it  at  any  price.  Men  plow  and  sail  for  it.  From 
the  forest  and  wilderness  come  the  tonics  and  barks  which 
brace  mankind.  Our  ancestors  were  savages.  The  story 
of  Romulus  and  Remus  being  suckled  by  a  wolf  is  not  a 
meaningless  fable.  The  founders  of  every  State  which 
has  risen  to  eminence  have  drawn  their  nourishment  and 
vigor  from  a  similar  wild  source.  It  was  because  the 
children  of  the  Empire  were  not  suckled  by  the  wolf  that 
they  were  conquered  and  displaced  by  the  children  of  the 
Northern  forests  who  were. 

I  believe  in  the  forest,  and  in  the  meadow,  and  in  the 
night  in  which  the  corn  grows.  We  require  an  infusion  of 
hemlock-spruce  or  arbor-vitse  in  our  tea.  There  is  a  dif 
ference  between  eating  and  drinking  for  strength  and  from 
mere  gluttony.  The  Hottentots  eagerly  devour  the  marrow 
of  the  koodoo  and  other  antelopes  raw,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Some  of  our  Northern  Indians  eat  raw  the  marrow 
of  the  Arctic  reindeer,  as  well  as  various  other  parts,  in 
cluding  the  summits  of  the  antlers,  as  long  as  they  are  soft. 
And  herein,  perchance,  they  have  stolen  a  march  on  the 
cooks  of  Paris.  They  get  what  usually  goes  to  feed  the 
fire.  This  is  probably  better  than  stall-fed  beef  and  slaugh 
ter-house  pork  to  make  a  man  of.  Give  me  a  wildness 


146  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

whose  glance  no  civilization  can  endure, — as  if  we  lived  on 
the  marrow  of  koodoos  devoured  raw. 

There  are  some  intervals  which  border  the  strain  of 
the  wood-thrush,  to  which  I  would  migrate, — wild  lands 
where  no  settler  has  squatted;  to  which,  methinks,  I  am 
already  acclimated. 

The  African  hunter  Cummings  tells  us  that  the  skin 
of  the  eland,  as  well  as  that  of  most  other  antelopes  just 
killed,  emits  the  most  delicious  perfume  of  trees  and  grass. 
I  would  have  every  man  so  much  like  a  wild  antelope,  so 
much  a  part  and  parcel  of  Nature,  that  his  very  person 
should  thus  sweetly  advertise  our  senses  of  his  presence, 
and  remind  us  of  those  parts  of  Nature  which  he  most 
haunts.  I  feel  no  disposition  to  be  satirical,  when  the 
trapper's  coat  emits  the  odor  of  musquash  even ;  it  is  a 
sweeter  scent  to  me  than  that  which  commonly  exhales  from 
the  merchant's  or  the  scholar's  garments.  When  I  go 
into  their  wardrobes  and  handle  their  vestments,  I  am 
reminded  of  no  grassy  plains  and  flowery  meads  which 
they  have  frequented,  but  of  dusty  merchants'  exchanges 
and  libraries  rather. 

A  tanned  skin  is  something  more  than  respectable,  and 
perhaps  olive  is  a  fitter  color  than  white  for  a  man, — a 
denizen  of  the  woods.  "  The  pale  white  man !  "  I  do  not 
wonder  that  the  African  pitied  him.  Darwin  the  naturalist 
says,  "  A  white  man  bathing  by  the  side  of  a  Tahitian 
was  like  a  plant  bleached  by  the  gardener's  art,  compared 
with  a  fine,  dark  green  one,  growing  vigorously  in  the 
open  fields." 

Ben  Jonson  exclaims, — 

"  How  near  to  good  is  what  is  fair !  " 
So  I  would  say, — 

How  near  to  good  is  what  is  wild! 


WALKING  147 

Life  consists  with  wildness.  The  most  alive  is  the  wildest. 
Not  yet  subdued  to  man,  its  presence  refreshes  him.  One 
who  pressed  forward  incessantly  and  never  rested  from 
his  labors,  who  grew  fast  and  made  infinite  demands  on 
life,  would  always  find  himself  in  a  new  country  or  wilder 
ness,  and  surrounded  by  the  raw  material  of  life.  He 
would  be  climbing  over  the  prostrate  stems  of  primitive 
forest-trees. 

Hope  and  the  future  for  me  are  not  in  lawns  and  culti 
vated  fields,  not  in  towns  and  cities,  but  in  the  impervious 
and  quaking  swamps.  When,  formerly,  I  have  analyzed 
my  partiality  for  some  farm  which  I  had  contemplated 
purchasing,  I  have  frequently  found  that  I  was  attracted 
solely  by  a  few  square  rods  of  impermeable  and  unfathom 
able  bog, — a  natural  sink  in  one  corner  of  it.  That  was  the 
jewel  which  dazzled  me.  I  derive  more  of  my  subsistence 
from  the  swamps  which  surround  my  native  town  than  from 
the  cultivated  gardens  in  the  village.  There  are  no  richer 
parterres  to  my  eyes  than  the  dense  beds  of  dwarf 
andromeda  (Cassandra  calyculata)  which  cover  these  tender 
places  on  the  earth's  surface.  Botany  cannot  go  farther 
than  tell  me  the  names  of  the  shrubs  which  grow  there, — 
the  high-blueberry,  panicled  andromeda,  lamb-kill,  azalea, 
and  rhodora, — all  standing  in  the  quaking  sphagnum.  I 
often  think  that  I  should  like  to  have  my  house  front  on 
this  mass  of  dull  red  bushes,  omitting  other  flower  pots 
and  borders,  transplanted  spruce  and  trim  box,  even 
graveled  walks, — to  have  this  fertile  spot  under  my  win 
dows,  not  a  few  imported  barrow-fulls  of  soil  only  to 
cover  the  sand  which  was  thrown  out  in  digging  the  cellar. 
Why  not  put  my  house,  my  parlor,  behind  this  plot,  instead 
of  behind  that  meager  assemblage  of  curiosities,  that  poor 
apology  for  a  Nature  and  Art,  which  I  call  my  front- 
yard?  It  is  an  effort  to  clear  up  and  make  a  decent  ap- 


148  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

pearance  when  the  carpenter  and  mason  have  departed, 
though  done  as  much  for  the  passer-by  as  the  dweller 
within.  The  most  tasteful  front-yard  fence  was  never  an 
agreeable  object  of  study  to  me;  the  most  elaborate  orna 
ments,  acorn-tops,  or  what  not,  soon  wearied  and  dis 
gusted  me.  Bring  your  sills  up  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
swamp,  then,  (though  it  may  not  be  the  best  place  for  a 
dry  cellar,)  so  that  there  be  no  access  on  that  side  to 
citizens.  Front-yards  are  not  made  to  walk  in,  but,  at  most, 
through,  and  you  could  go  in  the  back  way. 

Yes,  though  you  may  think  me  perverse,  if  it  were  pro 
posed  to  me  to  dwell  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  most 
beautiful  garden  that  ever  human  art  contrived,  or  else 
of  a  Dismal  swamp,  I  should  certainly  decide  for  the  swamp. 
How  vain,  then,  have  been  all  your  labors,  citizens,  for  me ! 

My  spirits  infallibly  rise  in  proportion  to  the  outward 
dreariness.  Give  me  the  ocean,  the  desert,  or  the  wilder 
ness  !  In  the  desert,  pure  air  and  solitude  compensate  for 
want  of  moisture  and  fertility.  The  traveler  Burton  says 
of  it, — "  Your  morale  improves ;  you  become  frank  and 
cordial,  hospitable  and  single-minded.  ...  In  the  desert, 
spirituous  liquors  excite  only  disgust.  There  is  a  keen 
enjoyment  in  a  mere  animal  existence."  They  who  have 
been  traveling  long  on  the  steppes  of  Tartary  say, — "  On 
reentering  cultivated  lands,  the  agitation,  perplexity,  and 
turmoil  of  civilization  oppressed  and  suffocated  us ;  the 
air  seemed  to  fail  us,  and  we  felt  every  moment  as  if  about 
to  die  of  asphyxia."  When  I  would  recreate  myself,  I 
seek  the  darkest  wood,  the  thickest  and  most  interminable, 
and,  to  the  citizen,  most  dismal  swamp.  I  enter  a  swamp  as  a 
sacred  place, — a  sanctum  sanctorum.  There  is  the  strength, 
the  marrow  of  Nature.  The  wild-wood  covers  the  virgin 
mold, — and  the  same  soil  is  good  for  men  and  for  trees. 
A  man's  health  requires  as  many  acres  of  meadow  to  his 


WALKING  149 

prospect  as  his  farm  does  loads  of  muck.  There  are  the 
strong  meats  on  which  he  feeds.  A  town  is  saved,  not 
more  by  the  righteous  men  in  it  than  by  the  woods  and 
swamps  that  surround  it.  A  township  where  one  primitive 
forest  waves  above,  while  another  primitive  forest  rots 
below, — such  a  town  is  fitted  to  raise  not  only  corn  and 
potatoes,  but  poets  and  philosophers  for  the  coming  ages. 
In  such  a  soil  grew  Homer  and  Confucius  and  the  rest,  and 
out  of  such  a  wilderness  comes  the  Reformer  eating  locusts 
and  wild  honey. 

To  preserve  wild  animals  implies  generally  the  creation 
of  a  forest  for  them  to  dwell  in  or  resort  to.  So  it  is  with 
man.  A  hundred  years  ago  they  sold  bark  in  our  streets 
peeled  from  our  own  woods.  In  the  very  aspect  of  those 
primitive  and  rugged  trees,  there  was,  methinks,  a  tanning 
principle  which  hardened  and  consolidated  the  fibers  of 
men's  thoughts.  Ah!  already  I  shudder  for  these  com 
paratively  degenerate  days  of  my  native  village,  when 
you  cannot  collect  a  load  of  bark  of  good  thickness, — and 
we  no  longer  produce  tar  and  turpentine. 

The  civilized  nations — Greece,  Rome,  England — have 
been  sustained  by  the  primitive  forests  which  anciently 
rotted  where  they  stand.  They  survive  as  long  as  the  soil 
is  not  exhausted.  Alas  for  human  culture!  little  is  to  be 
expected  of  a  nation,  when  the  vegetable  mould  is  ex 
hausted,  and  it  is  compelled  to  make  manure  of  the  bones 
of  its  fathers.  There  the  poet  sustains  himself  merely  by 
his  own  superfluous  fat,  and  the  philosopher  comes  down 
on  his  marrow-bones. 

It  is  said  to  be  the  task  of  the  American  "  to  work  the 
virgin  soil,"  and  that  "  agriculture  here  already  assumes 
proportions  unknown  everywhere  else."  I  think  that  the 
farmer  displaces  the  Indian  even  because  he  redeems  the 
meadow,  and  so  makes  himself  stronger  and  in  some  re- 


150  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

spects  more  natural.  I  was  surveying  for  a  man  the  other 
day  a  single  straight  line  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  rods 
long,  through  a  swamp,  at  whose  entrance  might  have 
been  written  the  words  which  Dante  read  over  the  entrance 
to  the  infernal  regions, — "  Leave  all  hope,  ye  that  enter," — 
that  is,  of  ever  getting  out  again;  where  at  one  time  I 
saw  my  employer  actually  up  to  his  neck  and  swimming  for 
his  life  in  his  property,  though  it  was  still  winter.  He 
had  another  similar  swamp  which  I  could  not  survey  at  all, 
because  it  was  completely  under  water,  and  nevertheless, 
with  regard  to  a  third  swamp,  which  I  did  survey  from  a 
distance,  he  remarked  to  me,  true  to  his  instincts,  that  he 
would  not  part  with  it  for  any  consideration,  on  account 
of  the  mud  which  it  contained.  And  that  man  intends  to 
put  a  girdling  ditch  round  the  whole  in  the  course  of  forty 
months,  and  so  redeem  it  by  the  magic  of  his  spade.  I 
refer  to  him  only  as  the  type  of  a  class. 

The  weapons  with  which  we  have  gained  our  most  im 
portant  victories,  which  should  be  handed  down  as  heir 
looms  from  father  to  son,  are  not  the  sword  and  the  lance, 
but  the  bushwhack,  the  turf-cutter,  the  spade,  and  the  bog- 
hoe,  rusted  with  the  blood  of  many  a  meadow,  and  be 
grimed  with  the  dust  of  many  a  hard-fought  field.  The 
very  winds  blew  the  Indian's  cornfield  into  the  meadow, 
and  pointed  out  the  way  which  he  had  not  the  skill  to 
follow.  He  had  no  better  implement  with  which  to  in 
trench  himself  in  the  land  than  a  clam-shell.  But  the 
farmer  is  armed  with  plow  and  spade. 

In  literature  it  is  only  the  wild  that  attracts  us.  Dullness 
is  but  another  name  for  tameness.  It  is  the  uncivilized 
free  and  wild  thinking  in  Hamlet  and  the  Iliad,  in 
all  the  scriptures  and  mythologies,  not  learned  in  the 
schools,  that  delights  us.  As  the  wild  duck  is  more  swift 
and  beautiful  than  the  tame,  so  is  the  wild — the  mallard — 


WALKING  151 

thought,  which  'mid  falling  dews  wings  its  way  above 
the  fens.  A  truly  good  book  is  something  as  natural,  and 
as  unexpectedly  and  unaccountably  fair  and  perfect,  as  a 
wild  flower  discovered  on  the  prairies  of  the  West  or  in 
the  jungles  of  the  East.  Genius  is  a  light  which  makes  the 
darkness  visible,  like  the  lightning's  flash,  which  perchance 
shatters  the  temple  of  knowledge  itself, — and  not  a  taper 
lighted  at  the  hearthstone  of  the  race,  which  pales  before 
the  light  of  common  day. 

English  literature,  from  the  days  of  the  minstrels  to  the 
Lake  Poets, — Chaucer  and  Spenser  and  Milton,  and  even 
Shakespeare,  included, — breathes  no  quite  fresh  and, 
in  this  sense,  wild  strain.  It  is  an  essentially  tame  and 
civilized  literature,  reflecting  Greece  and  Rome.  Her  wil 
derness  is  a  green  wood, — her  wild  man  a  Robin  Hood. 
There  is  plenty  of  genial  love  of  Nature,  but  not  so  much 
of  Nature  herself.  Her  chronicles  inform  us  when  her 
wild  animals,  but  not  when  the  wild  man  in  her,  became 
extinct. 

The  science  of  Humboldt  is  one  thing,  poetry  is  another 
thing.  The  poet  to-day,  notwithstanding  all  the  discover 
ies  of  science,  and  the  accumulated  learning  of  mankind, 
enjoys  no  advantage  over  Homer. 

Wnere  is  the  literature  which  gives  expression  to  Nature  ? 
He  would  be  a  poet  who  could  impress  the  winds  and 
streams  into  his  service,  to  speak  for  him ;  who  nailed  words 
to  their  primitive  senses,  as  farmers  drive  down  stakes 
in  the  spring,  which  the  frost  has  heaved;  who  derived  his 
words  as  often  as  he  used  them, — transplanted  them  to  his 
page  with  earth  adhering  to  their  roots ;  whose  words  were 
so  true  and  fresh  and  natural  that  they  would  appear  to 
expand  like  the  buds  at  the  approach  of  spring,  though  they 
lay  half-smothered  between  two  musty  leaves  in  a  library, 
— ay,  to  bloom  and  bear  fruit  there,  after  their  kind,  an- 


152  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

nually,  for  the  faithful  reader,  in  sympathy  with  surround 
ing  Nature. 

I  do  not  know  of  any  poetry  to  quote  which  adequately 
expresses  this  yearning  for  the  Wild.  Approached  from 
this  side,  the  best  poetry  is  tame.  I  do  not  know  where 
to  find  in  any  literature,  ancient  or  modern,  any  account 
which  contents  me  of  that  Nature  with  which  even  I  am 
acquainted.  You  will  perceive  that  I  demand  something 
which  no  Augustan  nor  Elizabethan  age,  which  no  culture, 
in  short,  can  give.  Mythology  comes  nearer  to  it  than  any 
thing.  How  much  more  fertile  a  Nature,  at  least,  has  Gre 
cian  mythology  its  root  in  than  English  literature!  Myth 
ology  is  the  crop  which  the  Old  World  bore  before  its 
soil  was  exhausted,  before  the  fancy  and  imagination  were 
affected  with  blight;  and  which  it  still  bears,  wherever  its 
pristine  vigor  is  unabated.  All  other  literatures  endure  only 
as  the  elms  which  overshadow  our  houses;  but  this  is  like 
the  great  dragon-tree  of  the  Western  Isles,  as  old  as  man 
kind,  and,  whether  that  does  or  not,  will  endure  as  long; 
for  the  decay  of  other  literatures  makes  the  soil  in  which 
it  thrives. 

The  West  is  preparing  to  add  its  fables  to  those  of  the 
East.  The  valleys  of  the  Ganges,  the  Nile,  and  the  Rhine, 
having  yielded  their  crop,  it  remains  to  be  seen  what  the 
valleys  of  the  Amazon,  the  Plate,  the  Orinoco,  the  St. 
Lawrence,  and  the  Mississippi  will  produce.  Perchance, 
when,  in  the  course  of  ages,  American  liberty  has  become 
a  fiction  of  the  past, — as  it  is  to  some  extent  a  fiction  of 
the  present, — the  poets  of  the  world  will  be  inspired  by 
American  mythology. 

The  wildest  dreams  of  wild  men,  even,  are  not  the  less 
true,  though  they  may  not  recommend  themselves  to  the 
sense  which  is  most  common  among  Englishmen  and 
Americans  to-day.  It  is  not  every  truth  that  recommends 


WALKING  153 

itself  to  the  common  sense.  Nature  has  a  place  for  the 
wild  clematis  as  well  as  for  the  cabbage.  Some  expressions 
of  truth  are  reminiscent, — others  merely  sensible,  as  the 
phrase  is, — others  prophetic.  Some  forms  of  disease,  even, 
may  prophesy  forms  of  health.  The  geologist  has  discov 
ered  that  the  figures  of  serpents,  griffins,  flying  dragons,  and 
other  fanciful  embellishments  of  heraldry,  have  their  proto 
types  in  the  forms  of  fossil  species  which  were  extinct 
before  man  was  created,  and  hence  "  indicate  a  faint  and 
shadowy  knowledge  of  a  previous  state  of  organic  exist 
ence."  The  Hindoos  dreamed  that  the  earth  rested  on  an 
elephant,  and  the  elephant  on  a  tortoise,  and  the  tortoise  on 
a  serpent ;  and  though  it  may  be  an  unimportant  coincidence, 
it  will  not  be  out  of  place  here  to  state,  that  a  fossil  tortoise 
has  lately  been  discovered  in  Asia  large  enough  to  support 
an  elephant.  I  confess  that  I  am  partial  to  these  wild 
fancies,  which  transcend  the  order  of  time  and  develop 
ment.  They  are  the  sublimest  recreation  of  the  intellect. 
The  partridge  loves  peas,  but  not  those  that  go  with  her 
into  the  pot. 

In  short,  all  good  things  are  wild  and  free.  There  is 
something  in  a  strain  of  music,  whether  produced  by  an 
instrument  or  by  the  human  voice, — take  the  sound  of  a 
bugle  in  a  summer  night,  for  instance, — which  by  its  wild- 
ness,  to  speak  without  satire,  reminds  me  of  the  cries 
emitted  by  wild  beasts  in  their  native  forests.  It  is  so 
much  of  their  wildness  as  I  can  understand.  Give  me 
for  my  friends  and  neighbors  wild  men,  not  tame  ones. 
The  wildness  of  the  savage  is  but  a  faint  symbol  of  the 
awful  ferity  with  which  good  men  and  lovers  meet. 

I  love  even  to  see  the  domestic  animals  reassert  their 
native  rights, — any  evidence  that  they  have  not  wholly  lost 
their  original  wild  habits  and  vigor ;  as  when  my  neighbor's 
cow  breaks  out  of  her  pasture  early  in  the  spring  and  boldly 


154  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

swims  the  river,  a  cold,  gray  tide,  twenty-five  or  thirty  rods 
wide,  swollen  by  the  melted  snow.  It  is  the  buffalo  crossing 
the  Mississippi.  This  exploit  confers  some  dignity  on  the 
herd  in  my  eyes, — already  dignified.  The  seeds  of  instinct 
are  preserved  under  the  thick  hides  of  cattle  and  horses, 
like  seeds  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  an  indefinite  period. 

Any  sportiveness  in  cattle  is  unexpected.  I  saw  one  day 
a  herd  of  a  dozen  bullocks  and  cows  running  about  and 
frisking  in  unwieldy  sport,  like  huge  rats,  even  like  kittens. 
They  shook  their  heads,  raised  their  tails,  and  rushed  up 
and  down  a  hill,  and  I  perceived  by  their  horns,  as  well  as 
by  their  activity,  their  relation  to  the  deer  tribe.  But,  alas ! 
a  sudden  loud  Whoa!  would  have  damped  their  ardor  at 
once,  reduced  them  from  venison  to  beef,  and  stiffened  their 
sides  and  sinews  like  the  locomotive.  Who  but  the  Evil 
One  has  cried,  "  Whoa!"  to  mankind?  Indeed,  the  life  of 
cattle,  like  that  of  many  men,  is  but  a  sort  of  locomotive- 
ness  ;  they  move  a  side  at  a  time,  and  man,  by  his  machinery, 
is  meeting  the  horse  and  the  ox  half-way.  Whatever  part 
the  whip  has  touched  is  thenceforth  palsied.  Who  would 
ever  think  of  a  side  of  any  of  the  supple  cat  tribe,  as  we 
speak  of  a  side  of  beef? 

I  rejoice  that  horses  and  steers  have  to  be  broken  before 
they  can  be  made  the  slaves  of  men,  and  that  men  them 
selves  have  some  wild  oats  still  left  to  sow  before  they  be 
come  submissive  members  of  society.  Undoubtedly,  all  men 
are  not  equally  fit  subjects  for  civilization;  and  because  the 
majority,  like  dogs  and  sheep,  are  tame  by  inherited  dis 
position,  this  is  no  reason  why  the  others  should  have  their 
natures  broken  that  they  may  be  reduced  to  the  same  level. 
Men  are  in  the  main  alike,  but  they  were  made  several  in 
order  that  they  might  be  various.  .  If  a  low  use  is  to  be 
served,  one  man  will  do  nearly  or  quite  as  well  as  another; 
if  a  high  one,  individual  excellence  is  to  be  regarded.  Any 


WALKING  155 

man  can  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away,  but  no  other 
man  could  serve  so  rare  a  use  as  the  author  of  this  illustra 
tion  did.  Confucius  says, — "  The  skins  of  the  tiger  and  the 
leopard,  when  they  are  tanned,  are  as  the  skins  of  the  dog 
and  the  sheep  tanned."  But  it  is  not  the  part  of  a  true 
culture  to  tame  tigers,  any  more  than  it  is  to  make  sheep 
ferocious ;  and  tanning  their  skins  for  shoes  is  not  the  best 
use  to  which  they  can  be  put. 

When  looking  over  a  list  of  men's  names  in  a  foreign 
language,  as  of  military  officers,  or  of  authors  who  have 
written  on  a  particular  subject,  I  am  reminded  once  more 
that  there  is  nothing  in  a  name.  The  name  Menschikoff, 
for  instance,  has  nothing  in  it  to  my  ears  more  human  than 
a  whisker,  and  it  may  belong  to  a  rat.  As  the  names  of  the 
Poles  and  Russians  are  to  us,  so  are  ours  to  them.  It  is  as 
if  they  had  been  named  by  the  child's  rigmarole, — lery 
wiery  ichery  van,  tittle-tol-tan.  I  see  in  my  mind  a  herd 
of  wild  creatures  swarming  over  the  earth,  and  to  each  the 
herdsman  has  affixed  some  barbarous  sound  in  his  own 
dialect.  The  names  of  men  are  of  course  as  cheap  and 
meaningless  as  Bose  and  Tray,  the  names  of  dogs. 

Methinks  it  would  be  some  advantage  to  philosophy, 
if  men  were  named  merely  in  the  gross,  as  they  are  known. 
It  would  be  necessary  only  to  know  the  genus  and  perhaps 
the  race  or  variety,  to  know  the  individual.  We  are  not 
prepared  to  believe  that  every  private  soldier  in  a  Roman 
army  had  a  name  of  his  own, — because  we  have  not  supposed 
that  he  had  a  character  of  his  own.  At  present  our  only 
true  names  are  nicknames.  I  knew  a  boy  who,  from  his 
peculiar  energy,  was  called  "  Buster "  by  his  playmates, 
and  this  rightly  supplanted  his  Christian  name.  Some 
travelers  tell  us  that  an  Indian  had  no  name  given  him  at 
first,  but  earned  it,  and  his  name  was  his  fame ;  and  among 


156  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

some  tribes  he  acquired  a  new  name  with  every  new 
exploit.  It  is  pitiful  when  a  man  bears  a  name  for 
convenience  merely,  who  has  earned  neither  name  nor 
fame. 

I  will  not  allow  mere  names  to  make  distinctions  for  me, 
but  still  see  men  in  herds  for  all  them.  A  familiar  name 
cannot  make  a  man  less  strange  to  me.  It  may  be  given 
to  a  savage  who  retains  in  secret  his  own  wild  title  earned 
in  the  woods.  We  have  a  wild  savage  in  us,  and  a  savage 
name  is  perchance  somewhere  recorded  as  ours.  I  see  that 
my  neighbor,  who  bears  the  familiar  epithet  William,  or 
Edwin,  takes  it  off  with  his  jacket.  It  does  not  adhere  to 
him  when  asleep  or  in  anger,  or  aroused  by  any  passion 
or  inspiration.  I  seem  to  hear  pronounced  by  some  of  his 
kin  at  such  a  time  his  original  wild  name  in  some  jaw- 
breaking  or  else  melodious  tongue. 

Here  is  this  vast,  savage,  howling  mother  of  ours,  Nature, 
lying  all  around,  with  such  beauty,  and  such  affection  for 
her  children,  as  the  leopard ;  and  yet  we  are  so  early  weaned 
from  her  breast  to  society,  to  that  culture  which  is  ex 
clusively  an  interaction  of  man  on  man, — a  sort  of  breeding 
in  and  in,  which  produces  at  most  a  merely  English  nobility, 
a  civilization  destined  to  have  a  speedy  limit. 

In  society,  in  the  best  institutions  of  men,  it  is  easy  to 
detect  a  certain  precocity.  When  we  should  still  be  grow 
ing  children,  we  are  already  little  men.  Give  me  a  culture 
which  imports  much  muck  from  the  meadows,  and  deepens 
the  soil, — not  that  which  trusts  to  heating  manures,  and 
improved  implements  and  modes  of  culture  only ! 

Many  a  poor,  sore-eyed  student  that  I  have  heard  of 
would  grow  faster,  both  intellectually  and  physically,  if, 
instead  of  sitting  up  so  very  late,  he  honestly  slumbered  a 
fool's  allowance. 


WALKING  157 

There  may  be  an  excess  even  of  informing  light.  Niepce, 
a  Frenchman,  discovered  "  actinism,"  that  power  in  the 
sun's  rays  which  produces  a  chemical  effect, — that  granite 
rocks,  and  stone  structures,  and  statues  of  metal,  "  are  all 
alike  destructively  acted  upon  during  the  hours  of  sunshine, 
and,  but  for  provisions  of  Nature  no  less  wonderful,  would 
soon  perish  under  the  delicate  touch  of  the  most  subtile 
of  the  agencies  of  the  universe."  But  he  observed  that 
"  those  bodies  which  underwent  this  change  during  the  day 
light  possessed  the  power  of  restoring  themselves  to  their 
original  conditions  during  the  hours  of  night,  when  this 
excitement  was  no  longer  influencing  them."  Hence  it  has 
been  inferred  that  "  the  hours  of  darkness  are  as  necessary 
to  the  inorganic  creation  as  we  know  night  and  sleep  are 
to  the  organic  kingdom."  Not  even  does  the  moon  shine 
every  night,  but  gives  place  to  darkness. 

I  would  not  have  every  man  nor  every  part  of  a  man  culti 
vated,  any  more  than  I  would  have  every  acre  of  earth 
cultivated :  part  will  be  tillage,  but  the  greater  part  will  be 
meadow  and  forest,  not  only  serving  an  immediate  use,  but 
preparing  a  mould  against  a  distant  future,  by  the  annual 
decay  of  the  vegetation  which  it  supports. 

There  are  other  letters  for  the  child  to  learn  than  those 
which  Cadmus  invented.  The  Spaniards  have  a  good  term 
to  express  this  wild  and  dusky  knowledge — Gramdtica  parda, 
tawny  grammar, — a  kind  of  mother-wit  derived  from  that 
same  leopard  to  which  I  have  referred. 

We  have  heard  of  a  Society  for  the  Diffusion  of  Useful 
Knowledge.  It  is  said  that  knowledge  is  power;  and  the 
like.  Methinks  there  is  equal  need  of  a  Society  for  the 
Diffusion  of  Useful  Ignorance,  what  we  will  call  Beautiful 
Knowledge,  a  knowledge  useful  in  a  higher  sense :  for  what 
is  most  of  our  boasted  so-called  knowledge  but  a  conceit 
that  we  know  something,  which  robs  us  of  the  advantage 


158  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

of  our  actual  ignorance?  What  we  call  knowledge  is  often 
our  positive  ignorance;  ignorance  our  negative  knowledge. 
By  long  years  of  patient  industry  and  reading  of  the  news 
papers, — for  what  are  the  libraries  of  science  but  files  of 
newspapers  ? — a  man  accumulates  a  myriad  facts,  lays  them 
up  in  his  memory,  and  then  when  in  some  spring  of  his  life 
he  saunters  abroad  into  the  Great  Fields  of  thought,  he,  as 
it  were,  goes  to  grass  like  a  horse,  and  leaves  all  his  harness 
behind  in  the  stable.  I  would  say  to  the  Society  for  the 
Diffusion  of  Useful  Knowledge,  sometimes, — Go  to  grass. 
You  have  eaten  hay  long  enough.  The  spring  has  come 
with  its  green  crop.  The  very  cows  are  driven  to  their 
country  pastures  before  the  end  of  May;  though  I  have 
heard  of  one  unnatural  farmer  who  kept  his  cow  in  the 
barn  and  fed  her  on  hay  all  the  year  round.  So,  frequently, 
the  Society  for  the  Diffusion  of  Useful  Knowledge  treats 
its  cattle. 

A  man's  ignorance  sometimes  is  not  only  useful,  but 
beautiful, — while  his  knowledge,  so  called,  is  oftentimes 
worse  than  useless,  besides  being  ugly.  Which  is  the  best 
man  to  deal  with, — he  who  knows  nothing  about  a  subject, 
and,  what  is  extremely  rare,  knows  that  he  knows  nothing, 
or  he  who  really  knows  something  about  it,  but  thinks  that 
he  knows  all? 

My  desire  for  knowledge  is  intermittent ;  but  my  desire 
to  bathe  my  head  in  atmospheres  unknown  to  my  feet  is 
perennial  and  constant.  The  highest  that  we  can  attain  to 
is  not  Knowledge,  but  Sympathy  with  Intelligence.  I  do 
not  know  that  this  higher  knowledge  amounts  to  anything 
more  definite  than  a  novel  and  grand  surprise  on  a  sudden 
revelation  of  the  insufficiency  of  all  that  we  called  Knowl 
edge  before, — a  discovery  that  there  are  more  things  in 
heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamed  of  in  our  philosophy. 
It  is  the  lighting  up  of  the  mist  by  the  sun.  Man  cannot 


WALKING  159 

know  in  any  higher  sense  than  this,  any  more  than  he  can 
look  serenely  and  with  impunity  in  the  face  of  sun :  'Os  rl 
vow,  ov  Kdvov  i/orjo-eis, — "  You  will  not  perceive  that,  as  per 
ceiving  a  particular  thing,"  say  the  Chaldean  Oracles. 

There  is  something  servile  in  the  habit  of  seeking  after 
a  law  which  we  may  obey.  We  may  study  the  laws  of 
matter  at  and  for  our  convenience,  but  a  successful  life 
knows  no  law.  It  is  an  unfortunate  discovery  certainly, 
that  of  a  law  which  binds  us  where  we  did  not  know  before 
that  we  were  bound.  Live  free,  child  of  the  mist, — and 
with  respect  to  knowledge  we  are  all  children  of  the  mist. 
The  man  who  takes  the  liberty  to  live  is  superior  to  all 
the  laws,  by  virtue  of  his  relation  to  the  law-maker.  "  That 
is  active  duty,"  says  the  Vishnu  Purana,  "  which  is  not  for 
our  bondage ;  that  is  knowledge  which  is  for  our  liberation : 
all  other  duty  is  good  only  unto  weariness ;  all  other  knowl 
edge  is  only  the  cleverness  of  an  artist." 

It  is  remarkable  how  few  events  or  crises  there  are  in 
our  histories ;  how  little  exercised  we  have  been  in  our 
minds;  how  few  experiences  we  have  had.  I  would  fain 
be  assured  that  I  am  growing  apace  and  rankly,  though  nly 
very  growth  disturb  this  dull  equanimity, — though  it  be 
with  struggle  through  long,  dark,  muggy  nights  or  seasons 
of  gloom.  It  would  be  well,  if  all  our  lives  were  a  divine 
tragedy  even,  instead  of  this  trivial  comedy  or  farce.  Dante, 
Bunyan,  and  others,  appear  to  have  been  exercised  in  their 
minds  more  than  we :  they  were  subjected  to  a  kind  of 
culture  such  as  our  district  schools  and  colleges  do  not 
contemplate.  Even  Mahomet,  though  many  may  scream 
at  his  name,  had  a  good  deal  more  to  live  for,  ay,  and  to 
die  for,  than  they  have  commonly. 

When,  at  rare  intervals,  some  thought  visits  one,  as  per 
chance  he  is  walking  on  a  railroad,  then  indeed  the  cars 


160  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

go  by  without  his  hearing  them.     But  soon,  by  some  in 
exorable  law,  our  life  goes  by  and  the  cars  return. 

"  Gentle  breeze,  that  wanderest  unseen, 
And  bendest  the  thistles  round  Loira  of  storms, 
Traveler  of  the  windy  glens, 
Why  hast  thou  left  my  ear  so  soon?" 

While  almost  all  men  feel  an  attraction  drawing  them 
to  society,  few  are  attracted  strongly  to  Nature.  In  their 
relation  to  Nature  men  appear  to  me  for  the  most  part, 
notwithstanding  their  arts,  lower  than  the  animals.  It  is 
not  often  a  beautiful  relation,  as  in  the  case  of  the  animals. 
How  little  appreciation  of  the  beauty  of  the  landscape  there 
is  among  us !  We  have  to  be  told  that  the  Greeks  called 
the  world  Kooyxos,  Beauty,  or  Order,  but  we  do  not  see 
clearly  why  they  did  so,  and  we  esteem  it  at  best  only  a 
curious  philological  fact. 

For  my  part,  I  feel  that  with  regard  to  Nature  I  live  a 
sort  of  border  life,  on  the  confines  of  a  world  into  which 
I  make  occasional  and  transional  and  transient  forays  only, 
and  my  patriotism  and  allegiance  to  the  State  into  whose 
territories  I  seem  to  retreat  are  those  of  a  moss-trooper. 
Unto  a  life  which  I  call  natural  I  would  gladly  follow 
even  a  will-o'-the-wisp  through  bogs  and  sloughs  unimag 
inable,  but  no  moon  nor  firefly  has  shown  me  the  causeway 
to  it.  Nature  is  a  personality  so  vast  and  universal  that  we 
have  never  seen  one  of  her  features.  The  walker  in  the 
familiar  fields  which  stretch  around  my  native  town  some 
times  finds  himself  in  another  land  than  is  described  in 
their  owners'  deeds,  as  it  were  in  some  far-away  field  on 
the  confines  of  the  actual  Concord,  where  her  jurisdiction 
ceases,  and  the  idea  which  the  word  Concord  suggests  ceases 
to  be  suggested.  These  farms  which  I  have  myself  sur 
veyed,  these  bounds  which  I  have  set  up,  appear  dimly  still 


WALKING  161 

as  through  a  mist ;  but  they  have  no  chemistry  to  fix  them ; 
they  fade  from  the  surface  of  the  glass ;  and  the  picture 
which  the  painter  painted  stands  out  dimly  from  beneath. 
The  world  with  which  we  are  commonly  acquainted  leaves 
no  trace,  and  it  will  have  no  anniversary. 

I  took  a  walk  on  Spaulding's  Farm  the  other  afternoon. 
I  saw  the  setting  sun  lighting  up  the  opposite  side  of  a 
stately  pine  wood.  Its  golden  rays  straggled  into  the  aisles 
of  the  wood  as  into  some  noble  hall.  I  was  impressed  as 
if  some  ancient  and  altogether  admirable  and  shining  family 
had  settled  there  in  that  part  of  the  land  called  Concord, 
unknown  to  me, — to  whom  the  sun  was  servant, — who  had 
not  gone  into  society  in  the  village, — who  had  not  been 
called  on.  I'  saw  their  park,  their  pleasure-ground,  beyond 
through  the  wood,  in  Spaulding's  cranberry-meadow.  The 
pines  furnished  them  with  gables  as  they  grew.  Their 
house  was  not  obvious  to  vision;  the  trees  grew  through 
it.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  heard  the  sounds  of  a  sup 
pressed  hilarity  or  not.  They  seemed  to  recline  on  the 
sunbeams.  They  have  sons  and  daughters.  They  are  quite 
well.  The  farmer's  cart-path,  which  leads  directly  through 
their  hall,  does  not  in  the  least  put  them  out, — as  the  muddy 
bottom  of  a  pool  is  sometimes  seen  through  the  reflected 
skies.  They  never  heard  of  Spaulding,  and  do  not  know 
that  he  is  their  neighbor, — notwithstanding  I  heard  him 
whistle  as  he  drove  his  team  through  the  house.  Nothing 
can  equal  the  serenity  of  their  lives.  Their  coat  of  arms 
is  simply  a  lichen.  I  saw  it  painted  on  the  pines  and  oaks. 
Their  attics  were  in  the  tops  of  the  trees.  They  are  of  no 
politics.  There  was  no  noise  of  labor.  I  did  not  perceive 
that  they  were  weaving  or  spinning.  Yet  I  did  detect, 
when  the  wind  lulled  and  hearing  was  done  away,  the  finest 
imaginable  sweet  musical  hum, — as  of  a  distant  hive  in 
May,  which  perchance  was  the  sound  of  their  thinking. 


1 62  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

They  had  no  idle  thoughts,  and  no  one  without  could  see 
their  work,  for  their  industry  was  not  as  in  knots  and  ex 
crescences  embayed. 

But  I  find  it  difficult  to  remember  them.  They  fade 
irrevocably  out  of  my  mind  even  now  while  I  speak  and 
endeavor  to  recall  them,  and  recollect  myself.  It  is  only 
after  a  long  and  serious  effort  to  recollect  my  best  thoughts 
that  I  become  again  aware  of  their  cohabitancy.  If  it  were 
not  for  such  families  as  this,  I  think  I  should  move  out  of 
Concord. 

We  are  accustomed  to  say  in  New  England  that  few  and 
fewer  pigeons  visit  us  every  year.  Our  forests  furnish  no 
mast  for  them.  So,  it  would  seem,  few  and  fewer  thoughts 
visit  each  growing  man  from  year  to  year,  for  the  grove 
in  our  minds  is  laid  waste, — sold  to  feed  unnecessary  fires 
of  ambition,  or  sent  to  mill,  and  there  is  scarcely  a  twig  left 
for  them  to  perch  on.  They  no  longer  build  nor  breed  with 
us.  In  some  more  genial  season,  perchance,  a  faint  shadow 
flits  across  the  landscape  of  the  mind,  cast  by  the  wings 
of  some  thought  in  its  vernal  or  autumnal  migration,  but, 
looking  up,  we  are  unable  to  detect  the  substance  of  the 
thought  itself.  Our  winged  thoughts  are  turned  to  poultry. 
They  no  longer  soar,  and  they  attain  only  to  a  Shanghai 
and  Cochin-China  grandeur.  Those  gra-a-ate  thoughts,  those 
gra-a-ate  men  you  hear  of ! 

We  hug  the  earth, — how  rarely  we  mount !  Methinks  we 
might  elevate  ourselves  a  little  more.  We  might  climb  a 
tree,  at  least.  I  found  my  account  in  climbing  a  tree  once. 
It  was  a  tall  white  pine,  on  the  top  of  a  hill;  and  though 
I  got  well  pitched,  I  was  well  paid  for  it,  for  I  discovered 
new  mountains  in  the  horizon  which  I  had  never  seen  before, 
— so  much  more  of  the  earth  and  the  heavens.  I  might  have 
walked  about  the  foot  of  the  tree  for  threescore  years  and 


WALKING  163 

ten,  and  yet  I  certainly  should  never  have  seen  them.  But, 
above  all,  I  discovered  around  me, — it  was  near  the  end  of 
June, — on  the  ends  of  the  topmost  branches  only,  a  few 
minute  and  delicate  red  cone-like  blossoms,  the  fertile  flower 
of  the  white  pine  looking  heavenward.  I  carried  straight 
way  to  the  village  the  topmost  spire,  and  showed  it  to 
stranger  jurymen  who  walked  the  streets, — for  it  was  court- 
week, — and  to  farmers  and  lumber-dealers  and  wood- 
choppers  and  hunters,  and  not  one  had  ever  seen  the  like 
before,  but  they  wondered  as  at  a  star  dropped  down.  Tell 
of  ancient  architects  finishing  their  works  on  the  tops  of 
columns  as  perfectly  as  on  the  lower  and  more  visible  parts ! 
Nature  has  from  the  first  expanded  the  minute  blossoms 
of  the  forest  only  toward  the  heavens,  above  men's  heads 
and  unobserved  by  them.  We  see  only  the  flowers  that 
are  under  our  feet  in  the  meadows.  The  pines  have  de 
veloped  their  delicate  blossoms  on  the  highest  twigs  of  the 
wood  every  summer  for  ages,  as  well  over  the  heads  of 
Nature's  red  children  as  of  her  white  ones;  yet  scarcely  a 
farmer  or  hunter  in  the  land  has  ever  seen  them. 

Above  all,  we  cannot  afford  not  to  live  in  the  present. 
He  is  blessed  over  all  mortals  who  loses  no  moment  of 
the  passing  life  in  remembering  the  past.  Unless  our  phi 
losophy  hears  the  cock  crow  in  every  barn-yard  within  our 
horizon,  it  is  belated.  That  sound  commonly  reminds  us 
that  we  are  growing  rusty  and  antique  in  our  employments 
and  habits  of  thought.  His  philosophy  comes  down  to  a 
rhore  recent  time  than  ours.  There  is  something  suggested 
by  it  that  is  a  newer  testament, — the  gospel  according  to 
this  moment.  He  has  not  fallen  astern ;  he  has  got  up  early, 
and  kept  up  early,  and  to  be  where  he  is  to  be  in  season, 
in  the  foremost  rank  of  time.  It  is  an  expression  of  the 
health  and  soundness  of  Nature,  a  brag  for  all  the  world, — 


164  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

healthiness  as  of  a  spring  burst  forth,  a  new  fountain  of 
the  Muses,  to  celebrate  this  last  instant  of  time.  Where 
he  lives  no  fugitive  slave  laws  are  passed.  Who  has  not 
betrayed  his  master  many  times  since  last  he  heard  that 
note? 

The  merit  of  this  bird's  strain  is  in  its  freedom  from  all 
plaintiveness.  The  singer  can  easily  move  us  to  tears  or 
to  laughter,  but  where  is  he  who  can  excite  in  us  a  pure 
morning  joy?  When,  in  doleful  dumps,  breaking  the  awful 
stillness  of  our  wooden  sidewalk  on  a  Sunday,  or,  per 
chance,  a  watcher  in  the  house  of  mourning,  I  hear  a  cock 
erel  crow  far  or  near,  I  think  to  myself,  "  There  is  one  of 
us  well,  at  any  rate," — and  with  a  sudden  gush  return  to 
my  senses. 

We  had  a  remarkable  sunset  one  day  last  November.  I 
was  walking  in  a  meadow,  the  source  of  a  small  brook, 
when  the  sun  at  last,  just  before  setting,  after  a  cold  gray 
day,  reached  a  clear  stratum  in  the  horizon,  and  the  softest, 
brightest  morning  sunlight  fell  on  the  dry  grass  and  on  the 
stems  of  the  trees  in  the  opposite  horizon,  and  on  the  leaves 
of  the  shrub-oaks  on  the  hill-side,  while  our  shadows 
stretched  long  over  the  meadow  eastward,  as  if  we  were 
the  only  motes  in  its  beams.  It  was  such  a  light  as  we 
could  not  have  imagined  a  moment  before,  and  the  air 
also  was  so  warm  and  serene  that  nothing  was  wanting 
to  make  a  paradise  of  that  meadow.  When  we  reflected 
that  this  was  not  a  solitary  phenomenon,  never  to  happen 
again,  but  that  it  would  happen  forever  and  ever  an  infinite 
number  of  evenings,  and  cheer  and  reassure  the  latest  child 
that  walked  there,  it  was  more  glorious  still. 

The  sun  sets  on  some  retired  meadow,  where  no  house 
is  visible,  with  all  the  glory  and  splendor  that  it  lavishes 
on  cities,  and  perchance,  as  it  has  never  set  before, — where 


WALKING  165 

there  is  but  a  solitary  marsh-hawk  to  have  his  wings  gilded 
by  it,  or  only  a  musquash  looks  out  from  his  cabin,  and 
there  is  some  little  black-veined  brook  in  the  midst  of  the 
marsh,  just  beginning  to  meander,  winding  slowly  round 
a  decaying  stump.  We  walked  in  so  pure  and  bright  a 
light,  gilding  the  withered  grass  and  leaves,  so  softly  and 
serenely  bright,  I  thought  I  had  never  bathed  in  such  a 
golden  flood,  without  a  ripple  or  a  murmur  to  it.  The 
west  side  of  every  wood  and  rising  ground  gleamed  like 
the  boundary  of  Elysium,  and  the  sun  on  our  backs  seemed 
like  a  gentle  herdsman  driving  us  home  at  evening. 

So  we  saunter  toward  the  Holy  Land,  till  one  day  the 
sun  shall  shine  more  brightly  than  ever  he  has  done,  shall 
perchance  shine  into  our  minds  and  hearts,  and  light  up  our 
whole  lives  with  a  great  awakening  light,  as  warm  and 
serene  and  golden  as  on  a  bank-side  in  autumn. 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN 
FOREIGNERS  * 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

WALKING  one  day  toward  the  Village,  as  we  used  to  call 
it  in  the  good  old  days  when  almost  every  dweller  in  the 
town  had  been  born  in  it,  I  was  enjoying  that  delicious  sense 
of  disenthralment  from  the  actual  which  the  deepening 
twilight  brings  with  it,  giving  as  it  does  a  sort  of  obscure 
novelty  to  things  familiar.  The  coolness,  the  hush,  broken 
only  by  the  distant  bleat  of  some  belated  goat,  querulous  to 
be  disburdened  of  her  milky  load,  the  few  faint  stars,  more 
guessed  as  yet  than  seen,  the  sense  that  the  coming  dark 
would  so  soon  fold  me  in  the  secure  privacy  of  its  disguise, 
— all  things  combined  in  a  result  as  near  absolute  peace 
as  can  be  hoped  for  by  a  man  who  knows  that  there  is  a 
writ  out  against  him  in  the  hands  of  the  printer's  devil. 
For  the  moment,  I  was  enjoying  the  blessed  privilege  of 
thinking  without  being  called  on  to  stand  and  deliver  what 
I  thought  to  the  small  public  who  are  good  enough  to  take 
any  interest  therein.  I  love  old  ways,  and  the  path  I  was 
walking  felt  kindly  to  the  feet  it  had  known  for  almost  fifty 
years.  How  many  fleeting  impressions  it  had  shared  with 
me !  How  many  times  I  had  lingered  to  study  the  shadows 
of  the  leaves  mezzotinted  upon  the  turf  that  edged  it  by 
the  moon,  of  the  bare  boughs  etched  with  a  touch  beyond 
Rembrandt  by  the  same  unconscious  artist  on  the  'smooth 
page  of  snow!  If  I  turned  round,  through  dusky  tree-gaps 

*  From  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  January,  1869. 
166 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS    167 

came  the  first  twinkle  of  evening  lamps  in  the  dear  old 
homestead.  On  Corey's  hill  I  could  see  these  tiny  pharoses 
of  love  and  home  and  sweet  domestic  thoughts  flash  out  one 
by  one  across  the  blackening  salt-meadow  between.  How 
much  has  not  kerosene  added  to  the  cheerfulness  of  our 
evening  landscape !  A  pair  of  night-herons  flapped  heavily 
over  me  toward  the  hidden  river.  The  war  was  ended. 
I  might  walk  townward  without  that  aching  dread  of  bulle 
tins  that  had  darkened  the  July  sunshine  and  twice  made  the 
scarlet  leaves  of  October  seem  stained  with  blood.  I  re 
membered  with  a  pang,  half-proud,  half-painful,  how,  so 
many  years  ago,  I  had  walked  over  the  same  path  and  felt 
round  my  finger  the  soft  pressure  of  a  little  hand  that  was 
one  day  to  harden  with  faithful  grip  of  saber.  On  how 
many  paths,  leading  to  how  many  homes  where  proud 
Memory  does  all  she  can  to  fill  up  the  fireside  gaps  with 
shining  shapes,  must  not  men  be  walking  in  just  such 
pensive  mood  as  I  ?  Ah,  young  heroes,  safe  in  immortal 
youth  as  those  of  Homer,  you  at  least  carried  your  ideal 
hence  untarnished !  It  is  locked  for  you  beyond  moth  or  rust 
in  the  treasure-chamber  of  Death. 

Is  not  a  country,  I  thought,  that  has  had  such  as  they 
in  it,  that  could  give  such  as  they  a  brave  joy  in  dying 
for  it,  worth  something,  then?  And  as  I  felt  more  and 
more  the  soothing  magic  of  evening's  cool  palm  upon  my 
temples,  as  my  fancy  came  home  from  its  revery,  and  my 
senses,  with  reawakened  curiosity,  ran  to  the  front  win 
dows  again  from  the  viewless  closet  of  abstraction,  and  felt 
a  strange  charm  in  finding  the  old  tree  and  shabby  fence 
still  there  under  the  travesty  of  falling  night,  nay,  were 
conscious  of  an  unsuspected  newness  in  familiar  stars  and 
the  fading  outlines  of  hills  my  earliest  horizon,  I  was  con 
scious  of  an  immortal  soul,  and  could  not  but  rejoice  in  the 
unwaning  goodliness  of  the  world  into  which  I  had  been 


i68  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

born  without  any  merit  of  my  own.  I  thought  of  dear 
Henry  Vaughan's  rainbow,  "  Still  young  and  fine !  "  I  re 
membered  people  who  had  to  go  over  to  the  Alps  to  learn 
what  the  divine  silence  of  snow  was,  who  must  run  to  Italy 
before  they  were  conscious  of  the  miracle  wrought  every 
day  under  their  very  noses  by  the  sunset,  who  must  call 
upon  the  Berkshire  hills  to  teach  them  what  a  painter 
autumn  was,  while  close  at  hand  the  Fresh  Pond  meadows 
made  all  oriels  cheap  with  hues  that  showed  as  if  a  sunset- 
cloud  had  been  wrecked  among  their  maples.  One  might 
be  worse  off  than  even  in  America,  I  thought.  There  are 
some  things  so  elastic  that  even  the  heavy  roller  of  democ 
racy  cannot  flatten  them  altogether  down.  The  mind  can 
weave  itself  warmly  in  the  cocoon  of  its  own  thoughts  and 
dwell  a  hermit  anywhere.  A  country  without  traditions, 
without  ennobling  associations,  a  scramble  of  parvenus,  with 
a  horrible  consciousness  of  shoddy  running  through  politics, 
manners,  art,  literature,  nay,  religion  itself?  I  confess,  it 
did  not  seem  so  to  me  there  in  that  illimitable  quiet,  that 
serene  self-possession  of  nature,  where  Collins  might  have 
brooded  his  "  Ode  to  Evening,"  or  where  those  verses  on 
Solitude  in  Doclsley's  Collection,  that  Hawthorne  liked  so 
much,  might  have  been  composed.  Traditions?  Granting 
that  we  had  none,  all  that  is  worth  having  in  them  is  the 
common  property  of  the  soul, — an  estate  in  gavelkind  for 
all  the  sons  of  Adam, — and,  moreover,  if  a  man  cannot  stand 
on  his  two  feet  (the  prime  quality  of  whoever  has  left  any 
tradition  behind  him),  were  it  not  better  for  him  to  be 
honest  about  it  at  once,  and  go  down  on  all  fours?  And 
for  associations,  if  one  have  not  the  wit  to  make  them  for 
himself  out  of  native  earth,  no  ready-made  ones  of  other 
men  will  avail  much.  Lexington  is  none  the  worse  to  me 
for  not  being  in  Greece,  nor  Gettysburg  that  its  name  is 
not  Marathon.  "  Blessed  old  fields,"  I  was  just  exclaiming 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS    169 

to  myself,  like  one  of  Mrs.  Radcliff  e's  heroes,  "  dear  acres, 
innocently  secure  from  history,  which  these  eyes  first  be 
held,  may  you  be  also  those  to  which  they  shall  at  last  slowly 
darken !  "  when  I  was  interrupted  by  a  voice  which  asked 
me  in  German  whether  I  was  the  Herr  Professor,  Doctor, 
So-and-so  ?  The  "  Doctor  "  was  by  brevet  or  vaticination, 
to  make  the  grade  easier  to  my  pocket. 

One  feels  so  intimately  assured  that  he  is  made  up,  in 
part,  of  shreds  and  leavings  of  the  past,  in  part  of  the 
interpolations  of  other  people,  that  an  honest  man  would 
be  slow  in  saying  yes  to  such  a  question.  But  "  my  name  is 
So-and-so  "  is  a  safe  answer,  and  I  gave  it.  While  I  had 
been  romancing  with  myself,  the  street-lamps  had  been 
lighted,  and  it  was  under  one  of  these  detectives  that  have 
robbed  the  Old  Road  of  its  privilege  of  sanctuary  after 
nightfall  that  I  was  ambushed  by  my  foe.  The  inexorable 
villain  had  taken  my  description,  it  appears,  that  I  might 
have  the  less  chance  to  escape  him.  Dr.  Holmes  tells  us 
that  we  change  our  substance,  not  every  seven  years,  as 
was  once  believed,  but  with  every  breath  we  draw.  Why 
had  I  not  the  wit  to  avail  myself  of  the  subterfuge,  and, 
like  Peter,  to  renounce  my  identity,  especially,  as  in  certain 
moods  of  mind,  I  have  often  more  than  doubted  of  it  my 
self?  When  a  man  is,  as  it  were,  his  own  front-door,  and 
is  thus  knocked  at,  why  may  he  not  assume  the  right  of 
that  sacred  wood  to  make  every  house  a  castle,  by  denying 
himself  to  all  visitations?  I  was  truly  not  at  home  when 
the  question  was  put  to  me,  but  had  to  recall  myself  from 
all  out-of-doors,  and  to  piece  my  self-consciousness  hastily 
together  as  well  as  I  could  before  I  answered  it. 

I  knew  perfectly  well  what  was  coming.  It  is  seldom 
that  debtors  or  good  Samaritans  waylay  people  under  gas- 
lamps  in  order  to  force  money  upon  them,  so  far  as  I  have 
seen  or  heard.  I  was  also  aware,  from  considerable  experi- 


170  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

ence,  that  every  foreigner  is  persuaded  that,  by  doing  this 
country  the  favor  of  coming  to  it,  he  has  laid  every  native 
thereof  under  an  obligation,  pecuniary  or  other,  as  the  case 
may  be,  whose  discharge  he  is  entitled  to  on  demand  duly 
made  in  person  or  by  letter.  Too  much  learning  (of  this 
kind)  had  made  me  mad  in  the  provincial  sense  of  the 
word.  I  had  begun  life  with  the  theory  of  giving  something 
to  every  beggar  that  came  along,  though  sure  of  never  find 
ing  a  native-born  countryman  among  them.  In  a  small 
way,  I  was  resolved  to  emulate  Hatem  Tai's  tent,  with  its 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five  entrances,  pne  for  every  day 
in  the  year, — I  know  not  whether  he  was  astronomer  enough 
to  add  another  for  leap-years.  The  beggars  were  a  kind  of 
German-silver  aristocracy;  not  real  plate,  to  be  sure,  but 
better  than  nothing.  Where  everybody  was  overworked, 
they  supplied  the  comfortable  equipoise  of  absolute  leisure, 
so  aesthetically  needful.  Besides,  I  was  but  too  conscious 
of  a  vagrant  fiber  in  myself,  which  too  often  thrilled  me  in 
my  solitary  walks  with  the  temptation  to  wander  on  into 
infinite  space,  and  by  a  single  spasm  of  resolution  to  eman 
cipate  myself  from  the  drudgery  of  prosaic  serfdom  to 
respectability  and  the  regular  course  of  things.  This 
prompting  has  been  at  times  my  familiar  demon,  and  I 
could  not  but  feel  a  kind  of  respectful  sympathy  for  men 
who  had  dared  what  I  had  only  sketched  out  to  myself  as 
a  splendid  possibility.  For  seven  years  I  helped  maintain 
one  heroic  man  on  an  imaginary  journey  to  Portland, — 
as  fine  an  example  as  I  have  ever  known  of  hopeless  loyalty 
to  an  ideal.  I  assisted  another  so  long  in  a  fruitless  attempt 
to  reach  Mecklenburg-Schwerin,  that  at  last  we  grinned 
in  each  other's  faces  when  we  met,  like  a  couple  of  augurs. 
He  was  possessed  by  this  harmless  mania  as  some  are  by 
the  North  Pole,  and  I  shall  never  forget  his  look  of  regretful 
compassion  (as  for  one  who  was  sacrificing  his  higher  life 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS    171 

to  the  fleshpots  of  Egypt)  when  I  at  last  advised  him  some 
what  strenuously  to  go  to  the  D ,  whither  the  road  was 

so  much  traveled  that  he  could  not  miss  it.  General  Banks, 
in  his  noble  zeal  for  the  honor  of  his  country,  would  confer 
on  the  Secretary  of  State  the  power  of  imprisoning,  in  case 
of  war,  all  these  seekers  of  the  unattainable,  thus  by  a 
stroke  of  the  pen  annihilating  the  single  poetic  element  in 
our  humdrum  life.  Alas!  not  everybody  has  the  genius 
to  be  a  Bobbin-Boy,  or  doubtless  all  these  also  would  have 
chosen  that  more  prosperous  line  of  life!  But  moralists, 
sociologists,  political  economists,  and  taxes  have  slowly  con 
vinced  me  that  my  beggarly  sympathies  were  a  sin  against 
society.  Especially  was  the  Buckle  doctrine  of  averages  (so 
flattering  to  our  free-will)  persuasive  with  me;  for  as  there 
must  be  in  every  year  a  certain  number  who  would  bestow 
an  alms  on  these  abridged  editions  of  the  Wandering  Jew, 
the  withdrawal  of  my  quota  could  make  no  possible  differ 
ence,  since  some  destined  proxy  must  always  step  forward 
to  fill  my  gap.  Just  so  many  misdirected  letters  every  year 
and  no  more !  Would  it  were  as  easy  to  reckon  up  the 
number  of  men  on  whose  backs  fate  has  written  the  wrong 
address,  so  that  they  arrive  by  mistake  in  Congress  and 
other  places  where  they  do  not  belong!  May  not  these 
wanderers  of  whom  I  speak  have  been  sent  into  the  world 
without  any  proper  address  at  all?  Where  is  our  Dead- 
Letter  Office  for  such?  And  if  wiser  social  arrangements 
should  furnish  us  with  something  of  the  sort,  fancy  (hor 
rible  thought!)  how  many  a  workingman's  friend  (a  kind 
of  industry  in  which  the  labor  is  light  and  the  wages  heavy) 
would  be  sent  thither  because  not  called  for  in  the  office 
where  he  at  present  lies ! 

But  I  am  leaving  my  new  acquaintance  too  long  under 
the  lamp-post.  The  same  Gano  which  had  betrayed  me 
to  him  revealed  to  me  a  well-set  young  man  of  about  half 


172  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

my  own  age,  as  well  dressed,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  as  I 
was,  and  with  every  natural  qualification  for  getting  his 
own  livelihood  as  good,  if  not  better,  than  my  own.  He  had 
been  reduced  to  the  painful  necessity  of  calling  upon  me 
by  a  series  of  crosses  beginning  with  the  Baden  Revolution 
(for  which,  I  own,  he  seemed  rather  young, — but  perhaps 
he  referred  to  a  kind  of  revolution  practiced  every  season 
at  Baden-Baden),  continued  by  repeated  failures  in  busi 
ness,  for  amounts  which  must  convince  me  of  his  entire 
respectability,  and  ending  with  our  Civil  War.  During  the 
latter,  he  had  served  with  distinction  as  a  soldier,  taking  a 
main  part  in  every  important  battle,  with  a  rapid  list  of 
which  he  favored  me,  and  no  doubt  would  have  admitted 
that,  impartial  as  Jonathan  Wild's  great  ancestor,  he  had 
been  on  both  sides,  had  I  baited  him  with  a  few  hints  of 
conservative  opinions  on  a  subject  so  distressing  to  a  gen 
tleman  wishing  to  profit  by  one's  sympathy  and  unhappily 
doubtful  as  to  which  way  it  might  lean.  For  all  these  rea 
sons,  and,  as  he  seemed  to  imply,  for  his  merit  in  consenting 
to  be  born  in  Germany,  he  considered  himself  my  natural 
creditor  to  the  extent  of  five  dollars,  which  he  would  hand 
somely  consent  to  accept  in  greenbacks,  though  he  preferred 
specie.  The  offer  was  certainly  a  generous  one,  and  the 
claim  presented  with  an  assurance  that  carried  conviction. 
But,  unhappily,  I  had  been  led  to  re'mark  a  curious  natural 
phenomenon.  If  I  was  ever  weak  enough  to  give  anything 
to  a  petitioner  of  whatever  nationality,  it  always  rained 
decayed  compatriots  of  his  for  a  month  after.  Post  hoc 
ergo  propter  hoc  may  not  always  be  safe  logic,  but  here  I 
seemed  to  perceive  a  natural  connection  of  cause  and  effect. 
Now,  a  few  days  before  I  had  been  so  tickled  with  a  paper 
(professedly  written  by  a  benevolent  American  clergyman) 
certifying  that  the  bearer,  a  hard-working  German,  had 
long  "  sofered  with  rheumatic  paints  in  his  limps,"  that, 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS    173 

after  copying  the  passage  into  my  note-book,  I  thought  it 
but  fair  to  pay  a  trifling  honorarium  to  the  author.  I  had 
pulled  the  string  of  the  shower-bath !  It  had  been  running 
shipwrecked  sailors  for  some  time,  but  forthwith  it  began 
to  pour  Teutons,  redolent  of  lager-bier.  I  could  not  help 
associating  the  apparition  of  my  new  friend  with  this  series 
of  otherwise  unaccountable  phenomena.  I  accordingly  made 
up  my  mind  to  deny  the  debt,  and  modestly  did  so,  plead 
ing  a  native  bias  towards  impecuniosity  to  the  full  as  strong 
as  his  own.  He  took  a  high  tone  with  me  at  once,  such  as 
an  honest  man  would  naturally  take  with  a  confessed  re- 
pudiator.  He  even  brought  down  his  proud  stomach  so  far 
as  to  join  himself  to  me  for  the  rest  of  my  townward  walk, 
that  he  might  give  me  his  views  of  the  American  people, 
and  thus  inclusively  of  myself. 

I  know  not  whether  it  is  because  I  am  pigeon-livered 
and  lack  gall,  or  whether  it  is  from  an  overmastering  sense 
of  drollery,  but  I  am  apt  to  submit  to  such  bastings  with 
a  patience  which  afterwards  surprises  me,  being  not  with 
out  my  share  of  warmth  in  the  blood.  Perhaps  it  is  be 
cause  I  so  often  meet  with  young  persons  who  know  vastly 
more  than  I  do,  and  especially  with  so  many  foreigners 
whose  knowledge  of  this  country  is  superior  to  my  own. 
However  it  may  be,  I  listened  for  some  time  with  tolerable 
composure  as  my  self-appointed  lecturer  gave  me  in  detail 
his  opinions  of  my  country  and  its  people.  America,  he 
informed  me,  was  without  arts,  science,  literature,  culture, 
or  any  native  hope  of  supplying  them.  We  were  a  people 
wholly  given  to  money-getting,  and  who,  having  got  it,  knew 
no  other  use  for  it  than  to  hold  it  fast.  I  am  fain  to  confess 
that  I  felt  a  sensible  itching  of  the  biceps,  and  that  my  ringers 
closed  with  such  a  grip  as  he  had  just  informed  me  was  one 
of  the  effects  of  our  unhappy  climate.  But  happening  just 
then  to  be  where  I  could  avoid  temptation  by  dodging  down 


174  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

a  by-street,  I  hastily  left  him  to  finish  his  diatribe  to  the 
lamp-post,  which  could  stand  it  better  than  I.  That  young 
man  will  never  know  how  near  he  came  to  being  assaulted 
by  a  respectable  gentleman  of  middle  age,  at  the  corner 
of  Church  Street.  I  have  never  felt  quite  satisfied  that  I 
did  all  my  duty  by  him  in  not  knocking  him  down.  But 
perhaps  he  might  have  knocked  me  down,  and  then  ? 

The  capacity  of  indignation  makes  an  essential  part  of 
the  outfit  of  every  honest  man,  but  I  am  inclined  to  doubt 
whether  he  is  a  wise  one  who  allows  himself  to  act  upon 
its  first  hints.  It  should  be  rather,  I  suspect,  a  latent  heat 
in  the  blood,  which  makes  itself  felt  in  character,  a  steady 
reserve  for  the  brain,  warming  the  ovum  of  thought  to  life, 
rather  than  cooking  it  by  a  too  hasty  enthusiasm  in  reaching 
the  boiling-point.  As  my  pulse  gradually  fell  back  to  its 
normal  beat,  I  reflected  that  I  had  been  uncomfortably  near 
making  a  fool  of  myself, — a  handy  salve  of  euphuism  for 
our  vanity,  though  it  does  not  always  make  a  just  allowance 
to  Nature  for  her  share  in  the  business.  What  possible 
claim  had  my  Teutonic  friend  to  rob  me  of  my  composure  ? 
I  am  not,  I  think,  specially  thin-skinned  as  to  other  people's 
opinions  of  myself,  having,  as  I  conceive,  later  and  fuller 
intelligence  on  that  point  than  anybody  else  can  give  me. 
Life  is  continually  weighing  us  in  very  sensitive  scales,  and 
telling  every  one  of  us  precisely  what  his  real  weight  is 
to  the  last  grain  of  dust.  Whoever  at  fifty  does  not  rate 
himself  quite  as  low  as  most  of  his  acquaintance  would  be 
likely  to  put  him,  must  be  either  a  fool  or  a  great  man,  and 
I  humbly  disclaim  being  either.  But  if  I  was  not  smarting 
in  person  from  any  scattering  shot  of  my  late  companion's 
commination,  why  should  I  grow  hot  at  any  implication  of 
my  country  therein?  Surely  her  shoulders  are  broad 
enough,  if  yours  or  mine  are  not,  to  bear  up  under  a  con- 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS     175 

siderable  avalanche  of  this  kind.  It  is  the  bit  of  truth  in 
every  slander,  the  hint  of  likeness  in  every  caricature,  that 
makes  us  smart.  "  Art  thou  there,  old  Truepenny?  "  How 
did  your  blade  know  its  way  so  well  to  that  one  loose  rivet 
in  our  armor?  I  wondered  whether  Americans  were  over 
sensitive  in  this  respect,  whether  they  were  more  touchy 
than  other  folks.  On  the  whole,  I  thought  we  were  not. 
Plutarch,  who  at  least  had  studied  philosophy,  if  he  had 
not  mastered  it,  could  not  stomach  something  Herodotus 
had  said  of  Boeotia,  and  devoted  an  essay  to  showing  up 
the  delightful  old  traveler's  malice  and  ill-breeding.  French 
editors  leave  out  of  Montaigne's  "  Travels  "  some  remarks 
of  his  about  France,  for  reasons  best  known  to  themselves. 
Pachydermatous  Deutschland,  covered  with  trophies  from 
every  field  of  letters,  still  winces  under  that  question  which 
Pere  Bouhours  put  two  centuries  ago,  Si  un  Allemand  pent 
ctre  bel-esprit?  John  Bull  grew  apoplectic  with  angry  amaze 
ment  at  the  audacious  persiflage  of  Piickler-Muskau.  To  be 
sure,  he  was  a  prince, — but  that  was  not  all  of  it,  for  a 
chance  phrase  of  gentle  Hawthorne  sent  a  spasm  through 
all  the  journals  of  England.  Then  this  tenderness  is  not 
peculiar  to  us?  Console  yourself,  dear  man  and  brother, 
whatever  else  you  may  be  sure  of,  be  sure  at  least  of  this, 
that  you  are  dreadfully  like  other  people.  Human  nature 
has  a  much  greater  genius  for  sameness  than  for  originality, 
or  the  world  would  be  at  a  sad  pass  shortly.  The  surprising 
thing  is  that  men  have  such  a  taste  for  this  somewhat  musty 
flavor,  that  an  Englishman,  for  example,  should  feel  himself 
defrauded,  nay,  even  outraged,  when  he  comes  over  here 
and  finds  a  people  speaking  what  he  admits  to  be  something 
like  English,  and  yet  so  very  different  from  (or,  as  he 
would  say,  to)  those  he  left  at  home.  Nothing,  I  am  sure, 
equals  my  thankfulness  when  I  meet  an  Englishman  who  is 


176  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

not  like  every  other,  or,  I  may  add,  an  American  of  the 
same  odd  turn. 

Certainly  it  is  no  shame  to  a  man  that  he  should  be  as 
nice  about  his  country  as  about  his  sweetheart,  and  who 
ever  heard  even  the  friendliest  appreciation  of  that  unex- 
pressive  she  that  did  not  seem  to  fall  infinitely  short?  Yet 
it  would  hardly  be  wise  to  hold  everyone  an  enemy  who 
could  not  see  her  with  our  own  enchanted  eyes.  It  seems 
to  be  the  common  opinion  of  foreigners  that  Americans  are 
too  tender  upon  this  point.  Perhaps  we  are ;  and  if  so, 
there  must  be  a  reason  for  it.  Have  we  had  fair  play? 
Could  the  eyes  of  what  is  called  Good  Society  (though  it 
is  so  seldom  true  either  to  the  adjective  or  noun)  look  upon 
a  nation  of  democrats  with  any  chance  of  receiving  an  un- 
distorted  image?  Were  not  those,  moreover,  who  found 
in  the  old  order  of  things  an  earthly  paradise,  paying  them 
quarterly  dividends  for  the  wisdom  of  their  ancestors,  with 
the  punctuality  of  the  seasons,  unconsciously  bribed  to  mis 
understand  if  not  to  misrepresent  us?  Whether  at  war  or 
at  peace,  there  we  were,  a  standing  menace  to  all  earthly 
paradises  of  that  kind,  fatal  underminers  of  the  very  credit 
on  which  the  dividends  were  based,  all  the  more  hateful  and 
terrible  that  our  destructive  agency  was  so  insidious,  work 
ing  invisible  in  the  elements,  as  it  seemed,  active  while  they 
slept,  and  coming  upon  them  in  the  darkness  like  an  armed 
man.  Could  Laius  have  the  proper  feelings  of  a  father 
towards  CEdipus,  announced  as  his  destined  destroyer  by 
infallible  oracles,  and  felt  to  be  such  by  every  conscious 
fiber  of  his  soul  ?  For  more  than  a  century  the  Dutch  were 
the  laughing-stock  of  polite  Europe.  They  were  butter- 
firkins,  swillers  of  beer  and  schnaps,  and  their  vrouws  from 
whom  Holbein  painted  the  ail-but  loveliest  of  Madonnas, 
Rembrandt  the  graceful  girl  who  sits  immortal  on  his  knee 
in  Dresden,  and  Rubens  his  abounding  goddesses,  were  the 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS    177 

synonymes  of  clumsy  vulgarity.  Even  so  late  as  Irving  the 
ships  of  the  greatest  navigators  in  the  world  were  repre 
sented  as  sailing  equally  well  stern-foremost.  That  the 
aristocratic  Venetians  should  have 

"  Riveted  with  gigantic  piles 
Thorough  the  center  their  new-catched  miles," 

was  heroic.  But  the  far  more  marvelous  achievement  of 
the  Dutch  in  the  same  kind  was  ludicrous  even  to  republican 
Marvell.  Meanwhile,  during  that  very  century  of  scorn, 
they  were  the  best  artists,  sailors,  merchants,  bankers, 
printers,  scholars,  jurisconsults,  and  statesmen  in  Europe, 
and  the  genius  of  Motley  has  revealed  them  to  us,  earning 
a  right  to  themselves  by  the  most  heroic  struggle  in  human 
annals.  But,  alas !  they  were  not  merely  simple  burghers 
who  had  fairly  made  themselves  High  Mightinesses,  and 
could  treat  on  equal  terms  with  anointed  kings,  but  their 
commonwealth  carried  in  its  bosom  the  germs  of  democracy. 
They  even  unmuzzled,  at  least  after  dark,  that  dreadful 
mastiff,  the  Press,  whose  scent  is,  or  ought  to  be,  so  keen 
for  wolves  in  sheep's  clothing  and  for  certain  other  animals 
in  lions'  skins.  They  made  fun  of  Sacred  Majesty,  and, 
what  was  worse,  managed  uncommonly  well  without  it.  In 
an  age  when  periwigs  made  so  large  a  part  of  the  natural 
dignity  of  man,  people  with  such  a  turn  of  mind  were  dan 
gerous.  How  could  they  seem  other  than  vulgar  and 
hateful? 

In  the  natural  course  of  things  we  succeeded  to  this 
unenviable  position  of  general  butt.  The  Dutch  had  thriven 
under  it  pretty  well,  and  there  was  hope  that  we  could 
at  least  contrive  to  worry  along.  And  we  certainly  did  in 
a  very  redoubtable  fashion.  Perhaps  we  deserved  some 
of  the  sarcasm  more  than  our  Dutch  predecessors  in  office. 
We  had  nothing  to  boast  of  in  arts  or  letters,  and  were  given 


178  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

to  bragging  overmuch  of  our  merely  material  prosperity, 
due  quite  as  much  to  the  virtue  of  our  continent  as  to  our 
own.  There  was  some  truth  in  Carlyle's  sneer,  after  all. 
Till  we  had  succeeded  in  some  higher  way  than  this,  we 
had  only  the  success  of  physical  growth.  Our  greatness, 
like  that  of  enormous  Russia,  was  greatness  on  the  map, — 
barbarian  mass  only ;  but  had  we  gone  down,  like  that  other 
Atlantis,  in  some  vast  cataclysm,  we  should  have  coveted 
but  a  pin's  point  on  the  chart  of  memory,  compared  with 
those  ideal  spaces  occupied  by  tiny  Attica  and  cramped  Eng 
land.  At  the  same  time,  our  critics  somewhat  too  easily 
forgot  that  material  must  make  ready  the  foundation  for 
ideal  triumphs,  that  the  arts  have  no  chance  in  poor  coun 
tries.  And  it  must  be  allowed  that  democracy  stood  for  a 
great  deal  in  our  shortcoming.  The  Edinburgh  Review 
never  would  have  thought  of  asking,  "  Who  reads  a  Rus 
sian  book?"  and  England  was  satisfied  with  iron  from 
Sweden  without  being  impertinently  inquisitive  after  her 
painters  and  statuaries.  Was  it  that  they  expected  too  much 
from  the  mere  miracle  of  Freedom  ?  Is  it  not  the  highest 
art  of  a  Republic  to  make  men  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  not 
the  marble  ideals  of  such?  It  may  be  fairly  doubted 
whether  we  have  produced  this  higher  type  of  man  yet. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  collective,  not  the  individual,  humanity 
that  is  to  have  a  chance  of  nobler  development  among  us. 
We  shall  see.  We  have  a  vast  amount  of  imported  ignorance, 
and,  still  worse,  of  native  ready-made  knowledge,  to  digest 
before  even  the  preliminaries  of  such  a  consummation  can 
be  arranged.  We  have  got  to  learn  that  statesmanship  is 
the  most  complicated  of  all  arts,  and  to  come  back  to  the 
apprenticeship-system  too  hastily  abandoned.  At  present, 
we  trust  a  man  with  making  constitutions  on  less  proof  of 
competence  than  we  should  demand  before  we  gave  him  our 
shoe  to  patch.  We  have  nearly  reached  the  limit  of  the 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS    179 

reaction  from  the  old  notion,  which  paid  too  much  regard 
to  birth  and  station  as  qualifications  for  office,  and  have 
touched  the  extreme  point  in  the  opposite  direction,  putting 
the  highest  of  human  functions  up  at  auction  to  be  bid  for 
by  any  creature  capable  of  going  upright  on  two  legs.  In 
some  places,  we  have  arrived  at  a  point  at  which  civil  society 
is  no  longer  possible,  and  already  another  reaction  has  be 
gun,  not  backwards  to  the  old  system,  but  towards  fitness 
either  from  natural  aptitude  or  special  training.  But  will 
it  always  be  safe  to  let  evils  work  their  own  cure  by  becom 
ing  unendurable  ?  Every  one  of  them  leaves  its  taint  in  the 
constitution  of  the  body-politic,  each  in  itself,  perhaps, 
trifling,  but  all  together  powerful  for  evil. 

But  whatever  we  might  do  or  leave  undone,  we  were  not 
genteel,  and  it  was  uncomfortable  to  be  continually  re 
minded  that,  though  we  should  boast  that  we  were  the 
Great  West  till  we  were  black  in  the  face,  it  did  not  bring 
us  an  inch  nearer  to  the  world's  West-End.  That  sacred 
inclosure  of  respectability  was  tabooed  to  us.  The  Holy 
Alliance  did  not  inscribe  us  on  its  visiting-list.  The  Old 
World  of  wigs  and  orders  and  liveries  would  shop  with 
us,  but  we  must  ring  at  the  area-bell,  and  not  venture  to 
awaken  the  more  august  clamors  of  the  knocker.  Our  man 
ners,  it  must  be  granted,  had  none  of  those  graces  that  stamp 
the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere,  in  whatever  museum  of  British 
antiquities  they  may  be  hidden.  In  short,  we  were  vulgar. 

This  was  one  of  those  horribly  vague  accusations,  the 
victim  of  which  has  no  defense.  An  umbrella  is  of  no  avail 
against  a  Scotch  mist.  It  envelops  you,  it  penetrates  at 
every  pore,  it  wets  you  through  without  seeming  to  wet  you 
at  all.  Vulgarity  is  an  eighth  deadly  sin,  added  to  the  list 
in  these  latter  days,  and  worse  than  all  the  others  put 
together,  since  it  perils  your  salvation  in  this  world, — far 
the  more  important  of  the  two  in  the  minds  of  most  men. 


180  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

It  profits  nothing  to  draw  nice  distinctions  between  essential 
and  conventional,  for  the  convention  in  this  case  is  the 
essence,  and  you  may  break  every  command  of  the  deca 
logue  with  perfect  good-breeding,  nay,  if  you  are  adroit, 
without  losing  caste.  We,  indeed,  had  it  not  to  lose,  for  we 
had  never  gained  it.  "  How  am  I  vulgar?  "  asks  the  culprit, 
shudderingly.  "  Because  thou  art  not  like  unto  Us/' 
answers  Lucifer,  Son  of  the  Morning,  and  there  is  no  more 
to  be  said.  The  god  of  this  world  may  be  a  fallen  angel, 
but  he  has  us  there!  We  were  as  clean, — so  far  as  my 
observation  goes,  I  think  we  were  cleaner,  morally  and 
physically,  than  the  English,  and  therefore,  of  course,  than 
everybody  else.  But  we  did  not  pronounce  the  diphthong 
ou  as  they  did,  and  we  said  eether  and  not  eyther,  following 
therein  the  fashion  of  our  ancestors,  who  unhappily  could 
bring  over  no  English  better  than  Shakespeare's ;  and  we 
did  not  stammer  as  they  had  learned  to  do  from  the  cour 
tiers,  who  in  this  way  nattered  the  Hanoverian  king,  a 
foreigner  among  the  people  he  had  come  to  reign  over. 
Worse  than  all,  we  might  have  the  noblest  ideas  and  the 
finest  sentiments  in  the  world,  but  we  vented  them  through 
that  organ  by  which  men  are  led  rather  than  leaders,  though 
some  physiologists  would  persuade  us  that  Nature  furnishes 
her  captains  with  a  fine  handle  to  their  faces  that  Oppor 
tunity  may  get  a  good  purchase  on  them  for  dragging  them 
to  the  front. 

This  state  of  things  was  so  painful  that  excellent  people 
were  not  wanting  who  gave  their  whole  genius  to  repro 
ducing  here  the  original  Bull,  whether  by  gaiters,  the  cut  of 
their  whiskers,  by  a  factitious  brutality  in  their  tone,  or 
by  an  accent  that  was  forever  tripping  and  falling  flat  over 
the  tangled  roots  of  our  common  tongue.  Martyrs  to  a 
false  ideal,  it  never  occurred  to  them  that  nothing  is  more 
hateful  to  gods  and  men  than  a  second-rate  Englishman, 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS     181 

and  for  the  very  reason  that  this  planet  never  produced  a 
more  splendid  creature  than  the  first-rate  one,  witness 
Shakespeare  and  the  Indian  Mutiny.  If  we  could  contrive 
to  be  not  too  unobtrusively  our  simple  selves,  we  should  be 
the  most  delightful  of  human  beings,  and  the  most  original ; 
whereas,  when  the  plating  of  Anglicism  rubs  off,  as  it  always 
will  in  points  that  come  to  much  wear,  we  are  liable  to  very 
unpleasing  conjectures  about  the  quality  of  the  metal  under 
neath.  Perhaps  one  reason  why  the  average  Briton  spreads 
himself  here  with  such  an  easy  air  of  superiority  may  be 
owing  to  the  fact  that  he  meets  with  so  many  bad  imita 
tions  as  to  conclude  himself  the  only  real  thing  in  a  wilder 
ness  of  shams.  He  fancies  himself  moving  through  an 
endless  Bloomsbury,  where  his  mere  apparition  confers 
honor  as  an  avatar  of  the  court-end  of  the  universe.  Not 
a  Bull  of  them  all  but  is  persuaded  he  bears  Europa  upon 
his  back.  This  is  the  sort  of  fellow  whose  patronage  is  so 
divertingly  insufferable.  Thank  Heaven  he  is  not  the  only 
specimen  of  cater-cousinship  from  the  dear  old  Mother 
Island  that  is  shown  to  us !  Among  genuine  things,  I  know 
nothing  more  genuine  than  the  better  men  whose  limbs 
were  made  in  England.  So  manly-tender,  so  brave,  so 
true,  so  warranted  to  wear,  they  make  us  proud  to  feel  that 
blood  is  thicker  than  water. 

But  it  is  not  merely  the  Englishman;  every  European 
candidly  admits  in  himself  some  right  of  primogeniture  in 
respect  of  us,  and  pats  this  shaggy  continent  on  the  back 
with  a  lively  sense  of  generous  unbending.  The  German 
who  plays  the  bass-viol  has  a  well-founded  contempt,  which 
he  is  not  always  nice  in  concealing,  for  a  country  so  few 
of  whose  children  ever  take  that  noble  instrument  between 
their  knees.  His  cousin,  the  Ph.D.  from  Gottingen,  cannot 
help  despising  a  people  who  do  not  grow  loud  and  red  over 
Aryans  and  Turanians,  and  are  indifferent  about  their  de- 


182  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

scent  from  either.  The  Frenchman  feels  an  easy  mastery 
in  speaking  his  mother  tongue,  and  attributes  it  to  some 
native  superiority  of  parts  that  lifts  him  high  above  us 
barbarians  of  the  West.  The  Italian  prima  donna  sweeps 
a  curtsy  of  careless  pity  to  the  over-facile  pit  which  unsexes 
her  with  the  bravo!  innocently  meant  to  show  a  familiarity 
with  foreign  usage.  But  all  without  exception  make  no 
secret  of  regarding  us  as  the  goose  bound  to  deliver  them 
a  golden  egg  in  return  for  their  cackle.  Such  men  as 
Agassiz,  Guyot,  and  Goldwin  Smith  come  with  gifts  in 
their .  hands ;  but  since  it  is  commonly  European  failures 
who  bring  hither  their  remarkable  gifts  and  acquirements, 
this  view  of  the  case  is  sometimes  just  the  least  bit  in  the 
world  provoking.  To  think  what  a  delicious  seclusion  of 
contempt  we  enjoyed  till  California  and  our  own  osten 
tatious  parvenus,  flinging  gold  away  in  Europe  that  might 
have  endowed  libraries  at  home,  gave  us  the  ill  repute  of 
riches !  What  a  shabby  downfall  from  the  Arcadia  which 
the  French  officers  of  our  Revolutionary  War  fancied  they 
saw  here  through  Rousseau-tinted  spectacles !  Something 
of  Arcadia  there  really  was,  something  of  the  Old  Age ;  and 
that  divine  provincialism  were  cheaply  repurchased  could 
we  have  it  back  again  in  exchange  for  the  tawdry  uphol 
stery  that  has  taken  its  place. 

For  some  reason  or  other,  the  European  has  rarely  been 
able  to  see  America  except  in  caricature.  Would  the  first 
Review  of  the  world  have  printed  the  niaiseries  of  Mr. 
Maurice  Sand  as  a  picture  of  society  in  any  civilized  coun 
try?  Mr.  Sand,  to  be  sure,  has  inherited  nothing  of  his 
famous  mother's  literary  outfit,  except  the  pseudonyme. 
But  since  the  conductors  of  the  Revue  could  not  have  pub 
lished  his  story  because  it  was  clever,  they  must  have  thought 
it  valuable  for  its  truth.  As  true  as  the  last-century  Eng 
lishman's  picture  of  Jean  Crapaud !  We  do  not  ask  to  be 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS    183 

sprinkled  with  rosewater,  but  may  perhaps  fairly  protest 
against  being  drenched  with  the  rinsings  of  an  unclean 
imagination.  The  next  time  the  Revue  allows  such  ill- 
bred  persons  to  throw  their  slops  out  of  its  first-floor  win 
dows,  let  it  honestly  preface  the  discharge  with  a  gardez- 
I'eau!  that  we  may  run  from  under  in  season.  And  Mr. 
Duvergier  d'Hauranne,  who  knows  how  to  be  entertaining ! 
I  know  le  Franqais  est  plutot  indiscret  que  confiant,  and  the 
pen  slides  too  easily  when  indiscretions  will  fetch  so  much 
a  page;  but  should  we  not  have  been  tant-soit-peu  more 
cautious  had  we  been  writing  about  people  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Channel?  But  then  it  is  a  fact  in  the  natural 
history  of  the  American  long  familiar  to  Europeans,  that 
he  abhors  privacy,  knows  not  the  meaning  of  reserve,  lives 
in  hotels  because  of  their  greater  publicity,  and  is  never  so 
pleased  as  when  his  domestic  affairs  (if  he  may  be  said 
to  have  any)  are  paraded  in  the  newspapers.  Barnum,  it  is 
well  known,  represents  perfectly  the  average  national  senti 
ment  in  this  respect.  However  it  be,  we  are  not  treated 
like  other  people,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  like  people  who 
are  ever  likely  to  be  met  with  in  society. 

Is  it  in  the  climate?  Either  I  have  a  false  notion  of 
European  manners,  or  else  the  atmosphere  affects  them 
strangely  when  exported  hither.  Perhaps  they  suffer  from 
the  sea-voyage  like  some  of  the  more  delicate  wines.  Dur 
ing  our  Civil  War  an  English  gentleman  of  the  highest 
description  was  kind  enough  to  call  upon  me,  mainly,  as  it 
seemed,  to  inform  me  how  entirely  he  sympathized  with  the 
Confederates,  and  how  sure  he  felt  that  we  could  never 
subdue  them, — "they  were  the  gentlemen  of  the  country, 
you  know."  Another,  the  first  greetings  hardly  over,  asked 
me  how  I  accounted  for  the  universal  meagerness  of  my 
countrymen.  To  a  thinner  man  than  I,  or  from  a  stouter 
man  than  he,  the  question  might  have  been  offensive.  The 


184  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

Marquis  of  Hartington l  wore  a  secession  badge  at  a 
public  ball  in  New  York.  In  a  civilized  country  he  might 
have  been  roughly  handled ;  but  here,  where  the  bienscances 
are  not  so  well  understood,  of  course  nobody  minded  it.  A 
French  traveler  told  me  he  had  been  a  good  deal  in  the 
British  colonies,  and  had  been  astonished  to  see  how  soon 
the  people  became  Americanized.  He  added,  with  delightful 
bonhomie,  and  as  if  he  were  sure  it  would  charm  me,  that 
"  they  even  began  to  talk  through  their  noses,  just  like 
you !  "  I  was  naturally  ravished  with  this  testimony  to  the 
assimilating  power  of  democracy,  and  could  only  reply 
that  I  "hoped  they  would  never  adopt  our  democratic  patent- 
method  of  seeming  to  settle  one's  honest  debts,  for  they 
would  find  it  paying  through  the  nose  in  the  long-run.  I 
am  a  man  of  the  New  World,  and  do  not  know  precisely 
the  present  fashion  of  May-Fair,  but  I  have  a  kind  of  feel 
ing  that  if  an  American  (mutato  nomine,  de  te  is  always 
frightfully  possible)  were  to  do  this  kind  of  thing  under  a 
European  roof,  it  would  induce  some  disagreeable  reflec 
tions  as  to  the  ethical  results  of  democracy.  I  read  the 
other  day  in  print  the  remark  of  a  British  tourist  who  had 
eaten  large  quantities  of  our  salt,  such  as  it  is  (I  grant 
it  has  not  the  European  savor),  that  the  Americans  were 
hospitable,  no  doubt,  but  that  it  was  partly  because  they 
longed  for  foreign  visitors  to  relieve  the  tedium  of  their 
dead-level  existence,  and  partly  from  ostentation.  What 
shall  we  do?  Shall  we  close  our  doors?  Not  I,  for  one, 

1  One  of  Mr.  Lincoln's  neatest  strokes  of  humor  was  his  treat 
ment  of  this  gentleman  when  a  laudable  curiosity  induced  him  to 
be  presented  to  the  President  of  the  Broken  Bubble.  Mr.  Lincoln 
persisted  in  calling  him  Mr.  Partington.  Surely  the  refinement  of 
good-breeding  could  go  no  further.  Giving  the  young  man  his  real 
name  (already  notorious  in  the  newspapers)  would  have  made  his 
visit  an  insult.  Had  Henri  IV.  done  this,  it  would  have  been 
famous. 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS     185 

if  I  should  so  have  forfeited  the  friendship  of  L.  S.,  most 
lovable  of  men.  He  somehow  seems  to  find  us  human, 
at  least,  and  so  did  Clough,  whose  poetry  will  one  of  these 
days,  perhaps,  be  found  to  have  been  the  best  utterance  in 
verse  of  this  generation. 

The  fine  old  Tory  aversion  of  former  times  was  not  hard 
to  bear.  There  was  something  even  refreshing  in  it,  as 
in  a  northeaster  to  a  hardy  temperament.  When  a  British 
parson,  traveling  in  Newfoundland  while  the  slash  of  our 
separation  was  still  raw,  after  prophesying  a  glorious  fu 
ture  for  an  island  that  continued  to  dry  its  fish  under  the 
aegis  of  Saint  George,  glances  disdainfully  over  his  spec 
tacles  in  parting  at  the  U.  S.  A.,  and  forebodes  for  them  a 
"  speedy  relapse  into  barbarism,"  now  that  they  have  madly 
cut  themselves  off  from  the  humanizing  influences  of 
Britain,  I  smile  with  barbarian  self-conceit.  But  this  kind 
of  thing  became  by  degrees  an  unpleasant  anachronism. 
For  meanwhile  the  young  giant  was  growing,  was  begin 
ning  indeed  to  feel  tight  in  his  clothes,  was  obliged  to  let 
in  a  gore  here  and  there  in  Texas,  in  California,  in  New 
Mexico,  in  Alaska,  and  had  the  scissors  and  needle  and 
thread  ready  for  Canada  when  the  time  came.  His  shadow 
loomed  like  a  Brocken-specter  over  against  Europe,— the 
shadow  of  what  they  were  coming  to,  that  was  the  unpleas 
ant  part  of  it.  Even  in  such  misty  image  as  they  had  of 
him,  it  was  painfully  evident  that  his  clothes  were  not  of 
any  cut  hitherto  fashionable,  nor  conceivable  by  a  Bond 
Street  tailor, — and  this  in  an  age,  too,  when  everything 
depends  upon  clothes,  when,  if  we  do  not  keep  up  appear- 
'ances,  the  seeming-solid  frame  of  this  universe,  nay,  your 
very  God,  would  slump  into  himself,  like  a  mockery  king 
of  snow,  being  nothing,  after  all,  but  a  prevailing  mode. 
From  this  moment  the  young  giant  assumed  the  respectable 
aspect  of  a  phenomenon,  to  be  got  rid  of  if  possible,  but 


1 86  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

at  any  rate  as  legitimate  a  subject  of  human  study  as  the 
glacial  period  or  the  silurian  what-d'ye-call-ems.  If  the 
man  of  the  primeval  drift-heaps  be  so  absorbingly  inter 
esting,  why  not  the  man  of  the  drift  that  is  just  beginning, 
of  the  drift  into  whose  irresistible  current  we  are  just 
being  sucked  whether  we  will  or  no?  If  I  were  in  their 
place,  I  confess  I  should  not  be  frightened.  Man  has  sur 
vived  so  much,  and  contrived  to  be  comfortable  on  this 
planet  after  surviving  so  much !  I  am  something  of  a 
protestant  in  matters  of  government  also,  and  am  willing  to 
get  rid  of  vestments  and  ceremonies  and  to  come  down  to 
bare  benches,  if  only  faith  in  God  take  the  place  of  a  gen 
eral  agreement  to  profess  confidence  in  ritual  and  sham. 
Every  mortal  man  of  us  holds  stock  in  the  only  public  debt 
that  is  absolutely  sure  of  payment,  and  that  is  the  debt 
of  the  Maker  of  this  Universe  to  the  Universe  he  has  made. 
I  have  no  notion  of  selling  out  my  shares  in  a  panic. 

It  was  something  to  have  advanced  even  to  the  dignity 
of  a  phenomenon,  and  yet  I  do  not  know  that  the  relation 
of  the  individual  American  to  the  individual  European  was 
bettered  by  it;  and  that,  after  all,  must  adjust  itself  com 
fortably  before  there  can  be  a  right  understanding  between 
the  two.  We  had  been  a  desert,  we  became  a  museum. 
People  came  hither  for  scientific  and  not  social  ends.  The 
very  cockney  could  not  complete  his  education  without  tak 
ing  a  vacant  stare  at  us  in  passing.  But  the  sociologists  (I 
think  they  call  themselves  so)  were  the  hardest  to  bear. 
There  was  no  escape.  I  have  even  known  a  professor  of 
this  fearful  science  to  come  disguised  in  petticoats.  We 
were  cross-examined  as  a  chemist  cross-examines  a  new 
substance.  Human?  yes,  all  the  elements  are  present, 
though  abnormally  combined.  Civilized  ?  Hm  !  that  needs 
a  stricter  assay.  No  entomologist  could  take  a  more  friendly 
interest  in  a  strange  bug.  After  a  few  such  experiences, 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS    187 

I,  for  one,  have  felt  as  if  I  were  merely  one  of  those  horrid 
things  preserved  in  spirits  (and  very  bad  spirits,  too)  in 
a  cabinet.  I  was  not  the  fellow-being  of  these  explorers: 
I  was  a  curiosity;  I  was  a  specimen.  Hath  not  an  Ameri 
can  organs,  dimensions,  senses,  affections,  passions  even 
as  a  European  hath?  If  you  prick  us,  do  we  not  bleed? 
If  you  tickle  us,  do  we  not  laugh?  I  will  not  keep  on 
with  Shylock  to  his  next  question  but  one. 

Till  after  our  Civil  War  it  never  seemed  to  enter  the 
head  of  any  foreigner,  especially  of  any  Englishman,  that 
an  American  had  what  could  be  called  a  country,  except  as 
a  place  to  eat,  sleep,  and  trade  in.  Then  it  seemed  to  strike 
them  suddenly.  "  By  Jove,  you  know,  fellahs  don't  fight 
like  that  for  a  shop-till !  "  No,  I  rather  think  not.  To 
Americans  America  is  something  more  than  a  promise  and 
an  expectation.  It  has  a  past  and  traditions  of  its  own. 
A  descent  from  men  who  sacrificed  everything  and  came 
hither,  not  to  better  their  fortunes,  but  to  plant  their  idea 
in  virgin  soil,  should  be  a  good  pedigree.  There  was  never 
colony  save  this  that  went  forth,  not  to  seek  gold,  but  God.  Is 
it  not  as  well  to  have  sprung  from  such  as  these  as  from  some 
burly  beggar  who  came  over  with  Wilhelmns  Conquestor, 
unless,  indeed,  a  line  grow  better  as  it  runs  farther  away 
from  stalwart  ancestors?  And  for  our  history,  it  is  dry 
enough,  no  doubt,  in  the  books,  but,  for  all  that,  is  of  a 
kind  that  tells  in  the  blood.  I  have  admitted  that  Carlyle's 
sneer  had  a  show  of  truth  in  it.  But  what  does  he  himself, 
like  a  true  Scot,  admire  in  the  Hohenzollerns?  First  of  all, 
that  they  were  canny,  a  thrifty,  forehanded  race.  Next, 
that  they  made  a  good  fight  from  generation  to  generation 
with  the  chaos  around  them.  That  is  precisely  the  battle 
which  the  English  race  on  this  continent  has  been  carrying 
doughtily  on  for  two  centuries  and  a  half.  Doughtily  and 
silently,  for  you  cannot  hear  in  Europe  "  that  crash,  the 


i88  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

death-song  of  the  perfect  tree,"  that  has  been  going  on 
here  from  sturdy  father  to  sturdy  son,  and  making  this 
continent  habitable  for  the  weaker  Old  World  breed  that 
has  swarmed  to  it  during  the  last  half-century.  If  ever  men 
did  a  good  stroke  of  work  on  this  planet,  it  was  the  fore 
fathers  of  those  whom  you  are  wondering  whether  it  would 
not  be  prudent  to  acknowledge  as  far-off  cousins.  Alas, 
man  of  genius,  to  whom  we  owe  so  much,  could  you  see 
nothing  more  than  the  burning  of  a  foul  chimney  in  that 
clash  of  Michael  and  Satan  which  flamed  up  under  your 
very  eyes? 

Before  our  war  we  were  to  Europe  but  a  huge  mob 
of  adventurers  and  shopkeepers.  Leigh  Hunt  expressed  it 
well  enough  when  he  said  that  he  could  never  think  of 
America  without  seeing  a  gigantic  counter  stretched  all 
along  the  seaboard.  Feudalism  had  by  degrees  made  com 
merce,  the  great  civilizer,  contemptible.  But  a.  tradesman 
with  sword  on  thigh  and  very  prompt  of  stroke  was  not 
only  redoubtable,  he  had  become  respectable  also.  Few 
people,  I  suspect,  alluded  twice  to  a  needle  in  Sir  John 
Hawkwood's  presence,  after  that  doughty  fighter  had  ex 
changed  it  for  a  more  dangerous  tool  of  the  same  metal. 
Democracy  had  been  hitherto  only  a  ludicrous  effort  to 
reverse  the  laws  of  nature  by  thrusting  Cleon  into  the  place 
of  Pericles.  But  a  democracy  that  could  fight  for  an  ab 
straction,  whose  members  held  life  and  goods  cheap  com 
pared  with  that  larger  life  which  we  call  country,  was  not 
merely  unheard  of,  but  portentous.  It  was  the  nightmare 
of  the  Old  World  taking  upon  itself  flesh  and  blood,  turning 
out  to  be  substance  and  not  dream.  Since  the  Norman 
crusader  clanged  down  upon  the  throne  of  the  porphyro- 
geniti,  carefully-draped  appearances  had  never  received 
such  a  shock,  had  never  been  so  rudely  called  on  to  produce 
their  titles  to  the  empire  of  the  world.  Authority  has  had 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS    189 

its  periods  not  unlike  those  of  geology,  and  at  last  comes 
Man  claiming  kingship  in  right  of  his  mere  manhood.  The 
world  of  the  Saurians  might  be  in  some  respects  more 
picturesque,  but  the  march  of  events  is  inexorable,  and  it 
is  bygone. 

The  young  giant  had  certainly  got  out  of  long-clothes. 
He  had  become  the  enfant  terrible  of  the  human  household. 
It  was  not  and  will  not  be  easy  for  the  world  (especially 
for  our  British  cousins)  to  look  upon  us  as  grown  up.  The 
youngest  of  nations,  its  people  must  also  be  young  and 
to  be  treated  accordingly,  was  the  syllogism.  Youth  has 
its  good  qualities,  as  people  feel  who  are  losing  it,  but  boy 
ishness  is  another  thing.  We  had  been  somewhat  boyish 
as  a  nation,  a  little  loud,  a  little  pushing,  a  little  braggart. 
But  might  it  not  partly  have  been  because  we  felt  that  we 
had  certain  claims  to  respect  that  were  not  admitted  ?  The 
war  which  established  our  position  as  a  vigorous  nationality 
has  also  sobered  us.  A  nation,  like  a  man,  cannot  look 
death  in  the  eye  for  four  years  without  some  strange  reflec 
tions,  without  arriving  at  some  clearer  consciousness  of 
the  stuff  it  is  made  of,  without  some  great  moral  change. 
Such  a  change,  or  the  beginning  of  it,  no  observant  person 
can  fail  to  see  here.  Our  thought  and  our  politics,  our  bear 
ing  as  a  people,  are  assuming  a  manlier  tone.  We  have 
been  compelled  to  see  what  was  weak  in  democracy  as  well 
as  what  was  strong.  We  have  begun  obscurely  to  recog 
nize  that  things  do  not  go  of  themselves,  and  that  popular 
government  is  not  in  itself  a  panacea,  is  no  better  than  any 
other  form  except  as  the  virtue  and  wisdom  of  the  people 
make  it  so,  and  that  when  men  undertake  to  do  their  own 
kingship,  they  enter  upon  the  dangers  and  responsibilities 
as  well  as  the  privileges  of  the  function.  Above  all,  it  looks 
as  if  we  were  on  the  way  to  be  persuaded  that  no  govern 
ment  can  be  carried  on  by  declamation.  It  is  noticeable  also 


190  AMERICAN  ESSAYS' 

that  facility  of  communication  has  made  the  best  English 
and  French  thought  far  more  directly  operative  here  than 
ever  before.  Without  being  Europeanized,  our  discussion 
of  important  questions  in  statesmanship,  in  political  econ 
omy,  in  aesthetics,  is  taking  a  broader  scope  and  a  higher 
tone.  It  had  certainly  been  provincial,  one  might  almost 
say  local,  to  a  very  unpleasant  extent.  Perhaps  our  ex 
perience  in  soldiership  has  taught  us  to  value  training  more 
than  we  have  been  popularly  wont.  We  may  possibly  come 
to  the  conclusion,  one  of  these  days,  that  self-made  men 
may  not  be  always  equally  skillful  in  the  manufacture  of 
wisdom,  may  not  be  divinely  commissioned  to  fabricate 
the  higher  qualities  of  opinion  on  all  possible  topics  of 
human  interest. 

So  long  as  we  continue  to  be  the  most  common-schooled 
and  the  least  cultivated  people  in  the  world,  I  suppose  we 
must  consent  to  endure  this  condescending  manner  of  for 
eigners  toward  us.  The  more  friendly  they  mean  to  be  the 
more  ludicrously  prominent  it  becomes.  They  can  never 
appreciate  the  immense  amount  of  silent  work  that  has 
been  done  here,  making  this  continent  slowly  fit  for  the 
abode  of  man,  and  which  will  demonstrate  itself,  let  us  hope, 
in  the  character  of  the  people.  Outsiders  can  only  be  ex 
pected  to  judge  a  nation  by  the  amount  it  has  contributed 
to  the  civilization  of  the  world;  the  amount,  that  is,  that 
can  be  seen  and  handled.  A  great  place  in  history  can 
only  be  achieved  by  competitive  examinations,  nay,  by  a 
long  course  of  them.  How  much  new  thought  have  we  con 
tributed  to  the  common  stock?  Till  that  question  can  be 
triumphantly  answered,  or  needs  no  answer,  we  must  con 
tinue  to  be  simply  interesting  as  an  experiment,  to  be 
studied  as  a  problem,  and  not  respected  as  an  attained 
result  or  an  accomplished  solution.  Perhaps,  as  I  have 
hinted,  their  patronizing  manner  toward  us  is  the  fair  result 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS    191 

of  their  failing  to  see  here  anything  more  than  a  poor  imi 
tation,  a  plaster-cast  of  Europe.  And  are  they  not  partly 
right?  If  the  tone  of  the  uncultivated  American  has  too 
often  the  arrogance  of  the  barbarian,  is  not  that  of  the 
cultivated  as  often  vulgarly  apologetic?  In  the  American 
they  meet  with  is  there  the  simplicity,  the  manliness,  the 
absence  of  sham,  the  sincere  human  nature,  the  sensitive 
ness  to  duty  and  implied  obligation,  that  in  any  way  distin 
guishes  us  from  what  our  orators  call  "  the  effete  civiliza 
tion  of  the  Old  World  "  ?  Is  there  a  politician  among  us 
daring  enough  (except  a  Dana  here  and  there)  to  risk  his 
future  on  the  chance  of  our  keeping  our  word  with  the 
exactness  of  superstitious  communities  like  England?  Is  it 
certain  that  we  shall  be  ashamed  of  a  bankruptcy  of  honor, 
if  we  can  only  keep  the  letter  of  our  bond?  I  hope  we  shall 
be  able  to  answer  all  these  questions  with  a  frank  yes.  At 
any  rate,  we  would  advise  our  visitors  that  we  are  not  merely 
curious  creatures,  but  belong  to  the  family  of  man,  and 
that,  as  individuals,  we  are  not  to  be  always  subjected  to 
the  competitive  examination  above  mentioned,  even  if  we 
acknowledged  their  competence  as  an  examining  board. 
Above  all,  we  beg  them  to  remember  that  America  is  not 
to  us,  as  to  them,  a  mere  object  of  external  interest  to  be 
discussed  and  analyzed,  but  in  us,  part  of  our  very  marrow. 
Let  them  not  suppose  that  we  conceive  of  ourselves  as  exiles 
from  the  graces  and  amenities  of  an  older  date  than  we, 
though  very  much  at  home  in  a  state  of  things  not  yet  all 
it  might  be  or  should  be,  but  which  we  mean  to  make  so, 
and  which  we  find  both  wholesome  and  pleasant  for  men 
(though  perhaps  not  for  dilettanti)  to  live  in.  "  The  full 
tide  of  human  existence"  may  be  felt  here  as  keenly  as 
Johnson  felt  it  at  Charing  Cross,  and  in  a  larger  sense.  I 
know  one  person  who  is  singular  enough  to  think  Cam 
bridge  the  very  best  spot  on  the  habitable  globe.  "  Doubt- 


192  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

less  God  could  have  made  a  better,  but  doubtless  he  never 
did." 

It  will  take  England  a  great  while  to  get  over  her  airs 
of  patronage  toward  us,  or  even  passably  to  conceal  them. 
She  cannot  help  confounding  the  people  with  the  country, 
and  regarding  us  as  lusty  juveniles.  She  has  a  conviction 
that  whatever  good  there  is  in  us  is  wholly  English,  when 
the  truth  is  that  we  are  worth  nothing  except  so  far  as  we 
have  disinfected  ourselves  of  Anglicism.  She  is  especially 
condescending  just  now,  and  lavishes  sugar-plums  on  us 
as  if  we  had  not  outgrown  them.  I  am  no  believer  in  sudden 
conversions,  especially  in  sudden  conversions  to  a  favorable 
opinion  of  people  who  have  just  proved  you  to  be  mistaken 
in  judgment  and  therefore  unwise  in  policy.  I  never 
blamed  her  for  not  wishing  well  to  democracy, — how  should 
she? — but  Alabamas  are  not  wishes.  Let  her  not  be  too 
hasty  in  believing  Mr.  Reverdy  Johnson's  pleasant  words. 
Though  there  is  no  thoughtful  man  in  America  who  would 
not  consider  a  war  with  England  the  greatest  of  calamities, 
yet  the  feeling  towards  her  here  is  very  far  from  cordial, 
whatever  our  Minister  may  say  in  the  effusion  that  comes 
after  ample  dining.  Mr.  Adams,  with  his  famous  "  My 
Lord,  this  means  war,"  perfectly  represented  his  country. 
Justly  or  not,  we  have  a  feeling  that  we  have  been  wronged, 
not  merely  insulted.  The  only  sure  way  of  bringing  about 
a  healthy  relation  between  the  two  countries  is  for  Eng 
lishmen  to  clear  their  minds  of  the  notion  that  we  are  always 
to  be  treated  as  a  kind  of  inferior  and  deported  English 
man  whose  nature  they  perfectly  understand,  and  whose 
back  they  accordingly  stroke  the  wrong  way  of  the  fur  with 
amazing  perseverance.  Let  them  learn  to  treat  us  natu 
rally  on  our  merits  as  human  beings,  as  they  would  a 
German  or  a  Frenchman,  and  not  as  if  we  were  a  kind  of 
counterfeit  Briton  whose  crime  appeared  in  every  shade 


ON  A  CERTAIN"  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS    193 

of  difference,  and  before  long  there  would  come  that  right 
feeling  which  we  naturally  call  a  good  understanding.  The 
common  blood,  and  still  more  the  common  language,  are 
fatal  instruments  of  misapprehension.  Let  them  give  up 
trying  to  understand  us,  still  more  thinking  that  they  do, 
and  acting  in  various  absurd  ways  as  the  necessary  conse 
quence,  for  they  will  never  arrive  at  that  devoutly-to-be- 
wished  consummation,  till  they  learn  to  look  at  us  as  we 
are  and  not  as  they  suppose  us  to  be.  Dear  old  long- 
estranged  mother-in-law,  it  is  a  great  many  years  since  we 
parted.  Since  1660,  when  you  married  again,  you  have  been 
a  stepmother  to  us.  Put  on  your  spectacles,  dear  madam. 
Yes,  we  have  grown,  and  changed  likewise.  You  would 
not  let  us  darken  your  doors,  if  you  could  help  it.  We 
know  that  perfectly  well.  But  pray,  when  we  look  to  be 
treated  as  men,  don't  shake  that  rattle  in  our  faces,  nor 
talk  baby  to  us  any  longer. 

"  Do,  child,  go  to  it  grandam,  child ; 
Give  grandam  kingdom,  and  it  grandam  will 
Give  it  a  plum,  a  cherry,  and  a  fig !  " 


PREFACE  TO  "  LEAVES  OF  GRASS  " 

1855 
WALT  WHITMAN 

AMERICA  does  not  repel  the  past,  or  what  the  past  has 
produced  under  its  forms,  or  amid  other  politics,  or  the 
idea  of  castes,  or  the  old  religions — accepts  the  lesson  with 
calmness — is  not  impatient  because  the  slough  still  sticks 
to  opinions  and  manners  in  literature,  while  the  life  which 
served  its  requirements  has  passed  into  the  new  life  of  the 
new  forms — perceives  that  the  corpse  is  slowly  borne  from 
the  eating  and  sleeping  rooms  of  the  house — perceives  that 
it  waits  a  little  while  in  the  door — that  it  was  fittest  for  its 
days — that  its  action  has  descended  to  the  stalwart  and  well- 
shaped  heir  who  approaches — and  that  he  shall  be  fittest  for 
his  days. 

The  Americans  of  all  nations  at  any  time  upon  the  earth, 
have  probably  the  fullest  poetical  nature.  The  United 
States  themselves  are  essentially  the  greatest  poem.  In  the 
history  of  the  earth  hitherto,  the  largest  and  most  stirring 
appear  tame  and  orderly  to  their  ampler  largeness  and  stir. 
Here  at  last  is  something  in  the  doings  of  man  that  corre 
sponds  with  the  broadcast  doings  of  the  day  and  night. 
Here  is  action  untied  from  strings,  necessarily  blind  to  par 
ticulars  and  details,  magnificently  moving  in  masses.  Here 
is  the  hospitality  which  for  ever  indicates  heroes.  Here  the 
performance,  disdaining  the  trivial,  unapproach'd  in  the  tre 
mendous  audacity  of  its  crowds  and  groupings,  and  the  push 
of  its  perspective,  spreads  with  crampless  and  flowing 

194 


PREFACE  TO  "  LEAVES  OF  GRASS  "  195 

breadth,  and  showers  its  prolific  and  splendid  extravagance. 
One  sees  it  must  indeed  own  the  riches  of  the  summer 
and  winter,  and  need  never  be  bankrupt  while  corn  grows 
from  the  ground,  or  the  orchards  drop  apples,  or  the  bays 
contain  fish,  or  men  beget  children  upon  women. 

Other  states  indicate  themselves  in  their  deputies — but  the 
genius  of  the  United  States  is  not  best  or  most  in  its  execu 
tives  or  legislatures,  nor  in  its  ambassadors  or  authors,  or 
colleges  or  churches  or  parlors,  nor  even  in  its  newspapers 
or  inventors — but  always  most  in  the  common  people,  south, 
north,  west,  east,  in  all  its  States,  through  all  its  mighty 
amplitude.  The  largeness  of  the  nation,  however,  were 
monstrous  without  a  corresponding  largeness  and  generosity 
of  the  spirit  of  the  citizen.  Not  swarming  states,  nor  streets 
and  steamships,  nor  prosperous  business,  nor  farms,  nor 
capital,  nor  learning,  may  suffice  for  the  ideal  of  man — nor 
suffice  the  poet.  No  reminiscences  may  suffice  either.  A 
live  nation  can  always  cut  a  deep  mark,  and  can  have  the 
best  authority  the  cheapest — namely,  from  its  own  soul. 
This  is  the  sum  of  the  profitable  uses  of  individuals  or 
states,  and  of  present  action  and  grandeur,  and  of  the 
subjects  of  poets.  (As  if  it  were  necessary  to  trot  back 
generation  after  generation  to  the  eastern  records!  As 
if  the  beauty  and  sacredness  of  the  demonstrable  must  fall 
behind  that  of  the  mythical !  As  if  men  do  not  make  their 
mark  out  of  any  times !  As  if  the  opening  of  the  western 
continent  by  discovery,  and  what  has  transpired  in  North 
and  South  America,  were  less  than  the  small  theater  of  the 
antique,  or  the  aimless  sleep-walking  of  the  middle  ages!) 
The  pride  of  the  United  States  leaves  the  wealth  and  finesse 
of  the  cities,  and  all  returns  of  commerce  and  agriculture, 
and  all  the  magnitude  of  geography  or  shows  of  exterior 
victory,  to  enjoy  the  sight  and  realization  of  full-sized 
men,  or  one  full-sized  man  unconquerable  and  simple. 


196  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

The  American  poets  are  to  inclose  old  and  new,  for 
America  is  the  race  of  races.  The  expression  of  the  Ameri 
can  poet  is  to  be  transcendent  and  new.  It  is  to  be  indirect, 
and  not  direct  or  descriptive  or  epic.  Its  quality  goes 
through  these  to  much  more.  Let  the  age  and  wars  of 
other  nations  be  chanted,  and  their  eras  and  characters  be 
illustrated,  and  that  finish  the  verse.  Not  so  the  great 
psalm  of  the  republic.  Here  the  theme  is  creative,  and 
has  vista.  Whatever  stagnates  in  the  flat  of  custom  or 
obedience  or  legislation,  the  great  poet  never  stagnates. 
Obedience  does  not  master  him,  he  masters  it.  High  up 
out  of  reach  he  stands,  turning  a  concentrated  light — he 
turns  the  pivot  with  his  finger — he  baffles  the  swiftest  run 
ners  as  he  stands,  and  easily  overtakes  and  envelopes  them. 
The  time  straying  toward  infidelity  and  confections  and 
persiflage  he  withholds  by  steady  faith.  Faith  is  the  anti 
septic  of  the  soul — it  pervades  the  common  people  and  pre 
serves  them — they  never  give  up  believing  and  expecting 
and  trusting.  There  is  that  indescribable  freshness  and  un 
consciousness  about  an  illiterate  person,  that  humbles  and 
mocks  the  power  of  the  noblest  expressive  genius.  The 
poet  sees  for  a  certainty  how  one  not  a  great  artist  may 
be  just  as  sacred  and  perfect  as  the  greatest  artist. 

The  power  to  destroy  or  remould  is  freely  used  by  the 
greatest  poet,  but  seldom  the  power  of  attack.  What  is  past 
is  past.  If  he  does  not  expose  superior  models,  and  prove 
himself  by  every  step  he  takes,  he  is  not  what  is  wanted. 
The  presence  of  the  great  poet  conquers — not  parleying,  or 
struggling,  or  any  prepared  attempts.  Now  he  has  passed 
that  way,  see  after  him !  There  is  not  left  any  vestige  of 
despair,  or  misanthropy,  or  cunning,  or  exclusiveness,  or 
the  ignominy  of  a  nativity  or  color,  or  delusion  of  hell  or 
the  necessity  of  hell — and  no  man  thenceforward  shall  be 
degraded  for  ignorance  or  weakness  or  sin.  The  greatest 


PREFACE  TO  "  LEAVES  OF  GRASS  "  197 

poet  hardly  knows  pettiness  or  triviality.  If  he  breathes 
into  anything  that  was  before  thought  small,  it  dilates  with 
the  grandeur  and  life  of  the  universe.  He  is  a  seer — he 
is  individual — he  is  complete  in  himself — the  others  are  as 
good  as  he,  only  he  sees  it,  and  they  do  not.  He  is  not  one 
of  the  chorus — he  does  not  stop  for  any  regulation — he  is 
the  president  of  regulation.  What  the  eyesight  does  to  the 
rest,  he  does  to  the  rest.  Who  knows  the  curious  mystery 
of  the  eyesight?  The  other  senses  corroborate  themselves, 
but  this  is  removed  from  any  proof  but  its  own,  and  fore 
runs  the  identities  of  the  spiritual  world.  A  single  glance 
of  it  mocks  all  the  investigations  of  man,  and  all  the  instru 
ments  and  books  of  the  earth,  and  all  reasoning.  What  is 
marvelous?  what  is  unlikely?  what  is  impossible  or  baseless 
or  vague — after  you  have  once  just  open'd  the  space  of  a 
peach-pit,  and  given  audience  to  far  and  near,  and  to  the 
sunset,  and  had  all  things  enter  with  electric  swiftness, 
softly  and  duly,  without  confusion  or  jostling  or  jam? 

The  land  and  sea,  the  animals,  fishes  and  birds,  the  sky 
of  heaven  and  the  orbs,  the  forests,  mountains  and  rivers, 
are  not  small  themes — but  folks  expect  of  the  poet  to 
indicate  more  than  the  beauty  and  dignity  which  always 
attach  to  dumb  real  objects — they  expect  him  to  indicate 
the  path  between  reality  and  their  souls.  Men  and  women 
perceive  the  beauty  well  enough — probably  as  well  as  he. 
The  passionate  tenacity  of  hunters,  woodmen,  early  risers, 
cultivators  of  gardens  and  orchards  and  fields,  the  love  of 
healthy  women  for  the  manly  form,  seafaring  persons, 
drivers  of  horses,  the  passion  for  light  and  the  open  air, 
all  is  an  old  varied  sign  of  the  unfailing  perception  of 
beauty,  and  of  a  residence  of  the  poetic  in  out-door  people. 
They  can  never  be  assisted  by  poets  to  perceive — some  may, 
but  they  never  can.  The  poetic  quality  is  not  marshal'd 
in  rhyme  or  uniformity,  or  abstract  addresses  to  things,  nor 


198  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

in  melancholy  complaints  or  good  precepts,  but  is  the  life 
of  these  and  much  else,  and  is  in  the  soul.  The  profit  of 
rhyme  is  that  it  drops  seeds  of  a  sweeter  and  more  luxuri 
ant  rhyme,  and  of  uniformity  that  it  conveys  itself  into  its 
own  roots  in  the  ground  out  of  sight.  The  rhyme  and 
uniformity  of  perfect  poems  show  the  free  growth  of 
metrical  laws,  and  bud  from  them  as  unerringly  and  loosely 
as  lilacs  and  roses  on  a  bush,  and  take  shapes  as  compact 
as  the  shapes  of  chestnuts  and  oranges,  and  melons  and 
pears,  and  shed  the  perfume  impalpable  to  form.  The 
fluency  and  ornaments  of  the  finest  poems  or  music  or 
orations  or  recitations,  are  not  independent  but  dependent. 
All  beauty  comes  from  beautiful  blood  and  a  beautiful  brain. 
If  the  greatnesses  are  in  conjunction  in  a  man  or  woman, 
it  is  enough — the  fact  will  prevail  through  the  universe ; 
but  the  gaggery  and  gilt  of  a  million  years  will  not  prevail. 
Who  troubles  himself  about  his  ornaments  or  fluency  is  lost. 
This  is  what  you  shall  do :  Love  the  earth  and  sun  and  the 
animals,  despise  riches,  give  alms  to  everyone  that  asks, 
stand  up  for  the  stupid  and  crazy,  devote  your  income  and 
labor  to  others,  hate  tyrants,  argue  not  concerning  God, 
have  patience  and  indulgence  toward  the  people,  take  off 
your  hat  to  nothing  known  or  unknown,  or  to  any  man 
or  number  of  men — go  freely  with  powerful  uneducated 
persons,  and  with  the  young,  and  with  the  mothers  of 
families — re-examine  all  you  have  been  told  in  school  or 
church  or  in  any  book,  and  dismiss  whatever  insults  your 
own  soul;  and  your  very  flesh  shall  be  a  great  poem,  and 
have  the  richest  fluency,  not  only  in  its  words,  but  in  the 
silent  lines  of  its  lips  and  face,  and  between  the  lashes 
of  your  eyes,  and  in  every  motion  and  joint  of  your  body. 
The  poet  shall  not  spend  his  time  in  unneeded  work.  He 
shall  know  that  the  ground  is  already  plow'd  and  manured  ; 
others  may  not  know  it,  but  he  shall.  He  shall  go  directly 


PREFACE  TO  "  LEAVES  OF  GRASS  "  199 

to  the  creation.  His  trust  shall  master  the  trust  of  every 
thing  he  touches — and  shall  master  all  attachment. 

The  known  universe  has  one  complete  lover,  and  that 
is  the  greatest  poet.  He  consumes  an  eternal  passion,  and 
is  indifferent  which  chance  happens,  and  which  possible 
contingency  of  fortune  or  misfortune,  and  persuades  daily 
and  hourly  his  delicious  pay.  What  balks  or  breaks  others 
is  fuel  for  his  burning  progress  to  contact  and  amorous  joy. 
Other  proportions  of  the  reception  of  pleasure  dwindle 
to  nothing  to  his  proportions.  All  expected  from  heaven 
or  from  the  highest,  he  is  rapport  with  in  the  sight  of  the 
daybreak,  or  the  scenes  of  the  winter  woods,  or  the  pres 
ence  of  children  playing,  or  with  his  arm  round  the  neck 
of  a  man  or  woman.  His  love  above  all  love  has  leisure 
and  expanse — he  leaves  room  ahead  of  himself.  He  is  no 
irresolute  or  suspicious  lover — he  is  sure — he  scorns  inter 
vals.  His  experience  and  the  showers  and  thrills  are  not  for 
nothing.  Nothing  can  jar  him — suffering  and  darkness  can 
not — death  and  fear  cannot.  To  him  complaint  and  jealousy 
and  envy  are  corpses  buried  and  rotten  in  the  earth — he  saw 
them  buried.  The  sea  is  not  surer  of  the  shore,  or  the 
shore  of  the  sea,  than  he  is  of  the  fruition  of  his  love,  and  of 
all  perfection  and  beauty. 

The  fruition  of  beauty  is  no  chance  of  miss  or  hit — it  is 
as  inevitable  as  life — it  is  exact  and  plumb  as  gravitation. 
From  the  eyesight  proceeds  another  eyesight,  and  from  the 
hearing  proceeds  another  hearing,  and  from  the  voice  pro 
ceeds  another  voice,  eternally  curious  of  the  harmony  of 
things  with  man.  These  understand  the  law  of  perfection 
in  masses  and  floods — that  it  is  profuse  and  impartial — that 
there  is  not  a  minute  of  the  light  or  dark,  nor  an  acre 
of  the  earth  and  sea,  without  it — nor  any  direction  of  the 
sky,  nor  any  trade  or  employment,  nor  any  turn  of  events. 
This  is  the  reason  that  about  the  proper  expression  of  beauty 


2OO  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

there  is  precision  and  balance.  One  part  does  not  need  to 
be  thrust  above  another.  The  best  singer  is  not  the  one 
who  has  the  most  lithe  and  powerful  organ.  The  pleasure 
of  poems  is  not  in  them  that  take  the  handsomest  measure 
and  sound. 

Without  effort,  and  without  exposing  in  the  least  how 
it  is  done,  the  greatest  poet  brings  the  spirit  of  any  or  all 
events  and  passions  and  scenes  and  persons,  some  more  and 
some  less,  to  bear  on  your  individual  character  as  you  hear 
or  read.  To  do  this  well  is  to  compete  with  the  laws  that 
pursue  and  follow  Time.  What  is  the  purpose  must  surely 
be  there,  and  the  clew  of  it  must  be  there — and  the  faintest 
indication  is  the  indication  of  the  best,  and  then  becomes 
the  clearest  indication.  Past  and  present  and  future  are  not 
disjoin'd  but  join'd.  The  greatest  poet  forms  the  con 
sistence  of  what  is  to  be,  from  what  has  been  and  is.  He 
drags  the  dead  out  of  their  coffins  and  stands  them  again 
on  their  feet.  He  says  to  the  past,  Rise  and  walk  before 
me  that  I  may  realize  you.  He  learns  the  lesson — he  places 
himself  where  the  future  becomes  present.  The  greatest 
poet  does  not  only  dazzle  his  rays  over  character  and  scenes 
and  passions — he  finally  ascends,  and  finishes  all — he  exhibits 
the  pinnacles  that  no  man  can  tell  what  they  are  for,  or 
what  is  beyond — he  glows  a  moment  on  the  extremest 
verge.  He  is  most  wonderful  in  his  last  half-hidden  smile  or 
frown ;  by  that  flash  of  the  moment  of  parting  the  one  that 
sees  it  shall  be  encouraged  or  terrified  afterward  for  many 
years.  The  greatest  poet  does  not  moralize  or  make  appli 
cations  of  morals — he  knows  the  soul.  The  soul  has  that 
measureless  pride  which  consists  in  never  acknowledging 
any  lessons  or  deductions  but  its  own.  But  it  has  sympathy 
as  measureless  as  its  pride,  and  the  one  balances  the  other, 
and  neither  can  stretch  too  far  while  it  stretches  in  company 
with  the  other.  The  inmost  secrets  of  art  sleep  with  the 


PREFACE  TO  "  LEAVES  OF  GRASS  "  201 

twain.  The  greatest  poet  has  lain  close  betwixt  both,  and 
they  are  vital  in  his  style  and  thoughts. 

The  art  of  art,  the  glory  of  expression  and  the  sun 
shine  of  the  light  of  letters,  is  simplicity.  Nothing  is  better 
than  simplicity — nothing  can  make  up  for  excess,  or  for 
the  lack  of  definiteness.  To  carry  on  the  heave  of  impulse 
and  pierce  intellectual  depths  and  give  all  subjects  their 
articulations,  are  powers  neither  common  nor  very  un 
common.  But  to  speak  in  literature  with  the  perfect  recti 
tude  and  insouciance  of  the  movements  of  animals,  and 
the  unimpeachableness  of  the  sentiment  of  trees  in  the 
woods  and  grass  by  the  roadside,  is  the  flawless  triumph 
of  art.  If  you  have  look'd  on  him  who  has  achiev'd  it  you 
have  look'd  on  one  of  the  masters  of  the  artists  of  all 
nations  and  times.  You  shall  not  contemplate  the  flight 
of  the  gray  gull  over  the  bay,  or  the  mettlesome  action  of 
the  blood  horse,  or  the  tall  leaning  of  sunflowers  on  their 
stalk,  or  the  appearance  of  the  sun  journeying  through 
heaven,  or  the  appearance  of  the  moon  afterward,  with  any 
more  satisfaction  than  you  shall  contemplate  him.  The 
great  poet  has  less  a  mark'cl  style,  and  is  more  the  channel 
of  thoughts  and  things  without  increase  or  diminution, 
and  is  the  free  channel  of  himself.  He  swears  to  his  art, 
I  will  not  be  meddlesome,  I  will  not  have  in  my  writing 
any  elegance,  or  effect,  or  originality,  to  hang  in  the  way 
between  me  and  the  rest  like  curtains.  I  will  have  nothing 
hang  in  the  way,  not  the  richest  curtains.  What  I  tell  I 
tell  for  precisely  what  it  is.  Let  who  may  exalt  or  startle 
or  fascinate  or  soothe,  I  will  have  purposes  as  health  or 
heat  or  snow  has,  and  be  as  regardless  of  observation. 
What  I  experience  or  portray  shall  go  from  my  composi 
tion  without  a  shred  of  my  composition.  You  shall  stand 
by  my  side  and  look  in  the  mirror  with  me. 

The  old  red  blood  and  stainless  gentility  of  great  poets 


202  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

will  be  proved  by  their  unconstraint.  A  heroic  person  walks 
at  his  ease  through  and  out  of  that  custom  or  precedent 
or  authority  that  suits  him  not.  Of  the  traits  of  the 
brotherhood  of  first-class  writers,  savans,  musicians,  in 
ventors  and  artists,  nothing  is  finer  than  silent  defiance  ad 
vancing  from  new  free  forms.  In  the  need  of  poems,  phi 
losophy,  politics,  mechanism,  science,  behavior,  the  craft 
of  art,  an  appropriate  native  grand  opera,  shipcraft,  or 
any  craft,  he  is  greatest  for  ever  and  ever  who  contributes 
the  greatest  original  practical  example.  The  cleanest  ex 
pression  is  that  which  finds  no  sphere  worthy  of  itself,  and 
makes  one. 

The  messages  of  great  poems  to  each  man  and  woman 
are,  Come  to  us  on  equal  terms,  only  then  can  you  Bunder- 
stand  us.  We  are  no  better  than  you,  what  we  inclose 
you  inclose,  what  we  enjoy  you  may  enjoy.  Did  you  sup 
pose  there  could  be  only  one  Supreme  ?  We  affirm  there  can 
be  unnumber'd  Supremes,  and  that  one  does  not  countervail 
another  any  more  than  one  eyesight  countervails  another — 
and  that  men  can  be  good  or  grand  only  of  the  consciousness 
of  their  supremacy  within  them.  What  do  you  think  is 
the  grandeur  of  storms  and  dismemberments,  and  the  dead 
liest  battles  and  wrecks,  and  the  wildest  fury  of  the  ele 
ments,  and  the  power  of  the  sea,  and  the  motion  of  Nature, 
and  the  throes  of  human  desires,  and  dignity  and  hate  and 
love?  It  is  that  something  in  the  soul  which  says,  Rage 
on,  whirl  on,  I  tread  master  here  and  everywhere — Master 
of  the  spasms  of  the  sky  and  of  the  shatter  of  the  sea, 
Master  of  nature  and  passion  and  death,  and  of  all  terror 
and  all  pain. 

The  American  bards  shall  be  mark'd  for  generosity  and 
affection,  and  for  encouraging  competitors.  They  shall 
be  Kosmos,  without  monopoly  or  secrecy,  glad  to  pass  any 
thing  to  anyone — hungry  for  equals  night  and  clay.  They 


PREFACE  TO  "  LEAVES  OF  GRASS  "  203 

shall  not  be  careful  of  riches  and  privilege — they  shall  be 
riches  and  privilege — they  shall  perceive  who  the  most 
affluent  man  is.  The  most  affluent  man  is  he  that  confronts 
all  the  shows  he  sees  by  equivalents  out  of  the  stronger 
wealth  of  himself.  The  American  bard  shall  delineate  no 
class  of  persons,  nor  one  or  two  out  of  the  strata  of  inter 
ests,  nor  love  most  nor  truth  most,  nor  the  soul  most,  nor 
the  body  most — and  not  be  for  the  Eastern  States  more  than 
the  Western,  or  the  Northern  States  more  than  the 
Southern. 

Exact  science  and  its  practical  movements  are  no  checks 
on  the  greatest  poet,  but  always  his  encouragement  and  sup 
port.  The  outset  and  remembrance  are  there — there  the 
arms  that  lifted  him  first,  and  braced  him  best — there  he 
returns  after  all  his  goings  and  comings.  The  sailor  and 
traveler — the  anatomist,  chemist,  astronomer,  geologist, 
phrenologist,  spiritualist,  mathematician,  historian,  and 
lexicographer,  are  not  poets,  but  they  are  the  lawgivers  of 
poets,  and  their  construction  underlies  the  structure  of  every 
perfect  poem.  No  matter  what  rises  or  is  utter'd,  they  sent 
the  seed  of  the  conception  of  it — of  them  and  by  them  stand 
the  visible  proofs  of  souls.  If  there  shall  be  love  and  con 
tent  between  the  father  and  the  son,  and  if  the  greatness  of 
the  son  is  the  exuding  of  the  greatness  of  the  father,  there 
shall  be  love  between  the  poet  and  the  man  of  demonstrable 
science.  In  the  beauty  of  poems  are  henceforth  the  tuft 
and  final  applause  of  science. 

Great  is  the  faith  of  the  flush  of  knowledge,  and  of  the 
investigation  of  the  depths  of  qualities  and  things.  Cleaving 
and  circling  here  swells  the  soul  of  the  poet,  yet  is  president 
of  itself  always.  The  depths  are  fathomless,  and  therefore 
calm.  The  innocence  and  nakedness  are  resumed — they  are 
neither  modest  nor  immodest.  The  whole  theory  of  the 
supernatural,  and  all  that  was  twined  with  it  or  educed  out 


2O4  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

of  it,  departs  as  a  dream.  What  has  ever  happen'd — what 
happens,  and  whatever  may  or  shall  happen,  the  vital  laws 
inclose  all.  They  are  sufficient  for  any  case  and  for  all 
cases — none  to  be  hurried  or  retarded — any  special  miracle 
of  affairs  or  persons  inadmissible  in  the  vast  clear  scheme 
where  every  motion  and  every  spear  of  grass,  and  the 
frames  and  spirits  of  men  and  women  and  all  that  concerns 
them,  are  unspeakably  perfect  miracles,  all  referring  to  all, 
and  each  distinct  and  in  its  place.  It  is  also  not  consistent 
with  the  reality  of  the  soul  to  admit  that  there  is  anything 
in  the  known  universe  more  divine  than  men  and  women. 

Men  and  women,  and  the  earth  and  all  upon  it,  are  to 
be  taken  as  they  are,  and  the  investigation  of  their  past 
and  present  and  future  shall  be  unintermitted,  and  shall 
be  done  with  perfect  candor.  Upon  this  basis  philosophy 
speculates,  ever  looking  towards  the  poet,  ever  regarding 
the  eternal  tendencies  of  all  toward  happiness,  never  incon 
sistent  with  what  is  clear  to  the  senses  and  to  the  soul. 
For  the  eternal  tendencies  of  all  toward  happiness  make  the 
only  point  of  sane  philosophy.  Whatever  comprehends  less 
than  that — whatever  is  less  than  the  laws  of  light  and  of 
astronomical  motion — or  less  than  the  laws  that  follow  the 
thief,  the  liar,  the  glutton  and  the  drunkard,  through  this 
life  and  doubtless  afterward — or  less  than  vast  stretches  of 
time,  or  the  slow  formation  of  density,  or  the  patient  up 
heaving  of  strata — is  of  no  account.  Whatever  would  put 
God  in  a  poem  or  system  of  philosophy  as  contending  against 
some  being  or  influence,  is  also  of  no  account.  Sanity  and 
ensemble  characterize  the  great  master — spoilt  in  one  prin 
ciple,  all  is  spoilt.  The  great  master  has  nothing  to  do  with 
miracles.  He  sees  health  for  himself  in  being  one  of  the 
mass — he  sees  the  hiatus  in  singular  eminence.  To  the  per 
fect  shape  comes  common  ground.  To  be  under  the  general 
law  is  great,  for  that  is  to  correspond  with  it.  The  master 


PREFACE  TO  "  LEAVES  OF  GRASS  "  205 

knows  that  he  is  unspeakably  great,  and  that  all  are  un 
speakably  great — that  nothing,  for  instance,  is  greater  than 
to  conceive  children,  and  bring  them  up  well — that  to  be  is 
just  as  great  as  to  perceive  or  tell. 

In  the  make  of  the  great  masters  the  idea  of  political 
liberty  is  indispensable.  Liberty  takes  the  adherence  of 
heroes  wherever  man  and  woman  exist — but  never  takes 
any  adherence  or  welcome  from  the  rest  more  than  from 
poets.  They  are  the  voice  and  exposition  of  liberty.  They 
out  of  ages  are  worthy  the  grand  idea — to  them  it  is  con 
fided,  and  they  must  sustain  it.  Nothing  has  precedence  of 
it,  and  nothing  can  warp  or  degrade  it. 

As  the  attributes  of  the  poets  of  the  kosmos  concenter  in 
the  real  body,  and  in  the  pleasure  of  things,  they  possess  the 
superiority  of  genuineness  over  all  fiction  and  romance. 
As  they  emit  themselves,  facts  are  shower'd  over  with  light 
— the  daylight  is  lit  with  more  volatile  light — the  deep  be 
tween  the  setting  and  rising  sun  goes  deeper  many  fold. 
Each  precise  object  or  condition  or  combination  or  process 
exhibits  a  beauty — the  multiplication  table  its — old  age  its — 
the  carpenter's  trade  its — the  grand  opera  its — the  huge- 
hull'd  clean-shap'd  New  York  clipper  at  sea  under  steam 
or  full  sail  gleams  with  unmatch'd  beauty — the  American 
circles  and  large  harmonies  of  government  gleam  with  theirs 
— and  the  commonest  definite  intentions  and  actions  with 
theirs.  The  poets  of  the  kosmos  advance  through  all  inter 
positions  and  coverings  and  turmoils  and  stratagems  to 
first  principles.  They  are  of  use — they  dissolve  poverty 
from  its  need,  and  riches  from  its  conceit.  You  large 
proprietor,  they  say,  shall  not  realize  or  perceive  more  than 
anyone  else.  The  owner  of  the  library  is  not  he  who  holds 
a  legal  title  to  it,  having  bought  and  paid  for  it.  Anyone 
and  everyone  is  owner  of  the  library,  (indeed  he  or  she 
alone  is  owner,)  who  can  read  the  same  through  all  the 


206  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

varieties  of  tongues  and  subjects  and  styles,  and  in  whom 
they  enter  with  ease,  and  make  supple  and  powerful  and 
rich  and  large. 

These  American  States,  strong  and  healthy  and  accom- 
plish'd,  shall  receive  no  pleasure  from  violations  of  natural 
models,  and  must  not  permit  them.  In  paintings  or  mouldings 
or  carvings  in  mineral  or  wood,  or  in  the  illustrations  of 
books  or  newspapers,  or  in  the  patterns  of  woven  stuffs, 
or  anything  to  beautify  rooms  or  furniture  or  costumes, 
or  to  put  upon  cornices  or  monuments,  or  on  the  prows  or 
sterns  of  ships,  or  to  put  anywhere  before  the  human  eye 
indoors  or  out,  that  which  distorts  honest  shapes,  or  which 
creates  unearthly  beings  or  places  or  contingencies,  is  a 
nuisance  and  revolt.  Of  the  human  form  especially,  it  is 
so  great  it  must  never  be  made  ridiculous.  Of  ornaments 
to  a  work  nothing  outre  can  be  allow'd — but  those  orna 
ments  can  be  allow'd  that  conform  to  the  perfect  facts 
of  the  open  air,  and  that  flow  out  of  the  nature  of  the  work, 
and  come  irrepressibly  from  it,  and  are  necessary  to  the 
completion  of  the  work.  Most  works  are  most  beautiful 
without  ornament.  Exaggerations  will  be  revenged  in  hu 
man  physiology.  Clean  and  vigorous  children  are  jetted  and 
conceiv'd  only  in  those  communities  where  the  models  of 
natural  forms  are  public  every  day.  Great  genius  and  the 
people  of  these  States  must  never  be  demean'd  to  romances. 
As  soon  as  histories  are  properly  told,  no  more  need  of 
romances. 

The  great  poets  are  to  be  known  by  the  absence  in  them 
of  tricks,  and  by  the  justification  of  perfect  personal  candor. 
All  faults  may  be  forgiven  of  him  who  has  perfect  candor. 
Henceforth  let  no  man  of  us  lie,  for  we  have  seen  that 
openness  wins  the  inner  and  outer  world,  and  that  there 
is  no  single  exception,  and  that  never  since  our  earth  gath- 
er'd  itself  in  a  mass  have  deceit  or  subterfuge  or  prevarica- 


PREFACE  TO  "  LEAVES  OF  GRASS  "  207 

tion  attracted  its  smallest  particle  or  the  faintest  tinge  of 
a  shade — and  that  through  the  enveloping  wealth  and  rank 
of  a  state,  or  the  whole  republic  of  states,  a  sneak  or  sly 
person  shall  be  discover'd  and  despised — and  that  the  soul 
has  never  once  been  fool'd  and  never  can  be  fool'd — and 
thrift  without  the  loving  nod  of  the  soul  is  only  a  foetid 
puff — and  there  never  grew  up  in  any  of  the  continents 
of  the  globe,  nor  upon  any  planet  or  satellite,  nor  in  that 
condition  which  precedes  the  birth  of  babes,  nor  at  any 
time  during  the  changes  of  life,  nor  in  any  stretch  of  abey 
ance  or  action  of  vitality,  nor  in  any  process  of  formation 
or  reformation  anywhere,  a  being  whose  instinct  hated  the 
truth. 

Extreme  caution  or  prudence,  the  soundest  organic  health, 
large  hope  and  comparison  and  fondness  for  women  and 
children,  large  alimentiveness  and  destructiveness  and 
causality,  with  a  perfect  sense  of  the  oneness  of  nature, 
and  the  propriety  of  the  same  spirit  applied  to  human  affairs, 
are  called  up  of  the  float  of  the  brain  of  the  world  to  be 
parts  of  the  greatest  poet  from  his  birth  out  of  his  mother's 
womb,  and  from  her  birth  out  of  her  mother's.  Caution 
seldom  goes  far  enough.  It  has  been  thought  that  the  pru 
dent  citizen  was  the  citizen  who  applied  himself  to  solid 
gains,  and  did  well  for  himself  and  for  his  family,  and 
completed  a  lawful  life  without  debt  or  crime.  The  greatest 
poet  sees  and  admits  these  economies  as  he  sees  the  econo 
mies  of  food  and  sleep,  but  has  higher  notions  of  prudence 
than  to  think  he  gives  much  when  he  gives  a  few  slight 
attentions  at  the  latch  of  the  gate.  The  premises  of  the 
prudence  of  life  are  not  the  hospitality  of  it,  or  the  ripe 
ness  and  harvest  of  it.  Beyond  the  independence  of  a  little 
sum  laid  aside  for  burial-money,  and  of  a  few  clap-boards 
around  and  shingles  overhead  on  a  lot  of  American  soil 
own'd,  and  the  easy  dollars  that  supply  the  year's  plain 


2o8  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

clothing  and  meals,  the  melancholy  prudence  of  the  aban 
donment  of  such  a  great  being  as  a  man  is,  to  the  toss  and 
pallor  of  years  of  money-making,  with  all  their  scorching 
days  and  icy  nights,  and  all  their  stifling  deceits  and  under 
hand  dodgings,  or  infinitesimals  of  parlors,  or  shameless 
stuffing  while  others  starve,  and  all  the  loss  of  the  bloom 
and  odor  of  the  earth,  and  of  the  flowers  and  atmosphere, 
and  of  the  sea,  and  of  the  true  taste  of  the  women  and  men 
you  pass  or  have  to  do  with  in  youth  or  middle  age,  and  the 
issuing  sickness  and  desperate  revolt  at  the  close  of  a  life 
without  elevation  or  naivete,  (even  if  you  have  achiev'd 
a  secure  10,000  a  year,  or  election  to  Congress  or  the  Gov 
ernorship,)  and  the  ghastly  chatter  of  a  death  without 
serenity  or  majesty,  is  the  great  fraud  upon  modern  civiliza 
tion  and  forethought,  blotching  the  surface  and  system 
which  civilization  undeniably  drafts,  and  moistening  with 
tears  the  immense  features  it  spreads  and  spreads  with  such 
velocity  before  the  reach'd  kisses  of  the  soul. 

Ever  the  right  explanation  remains  to  be  made  about 
prudence.  The  prudence  of  the  mere  wealth  and  re<- 
spectability  of  the  most  esteem'd  life  appears  too  faint  for 
the  eye  to  observe  at  all,  when  little  and  large  alike  drop 
quietly  aside  at  the  thought  of  the  prudence  suitable  for 
immortality.  What  is  the  wisdom  that  fills  the  thinness 
of  a  year,  or  seventy  or  eighty  years — to  the  wisdom  spaced 
out  by  ages,  and  coming  back  at  a  certain  time  with  strong 
reinforcements  and  rich  presents,  and  the  clear  faces  of 
wedding-guests  as  far  as  you  can  look,  in  every  direction, 
running  gayly  toward  you?  Only  the  soul  is  of  itself — all 
else  has  reference  to  what  ensues.  All  that  a  person  does 
or  thinks  is  of  consequence.  Nor  can  the  push  of  charity 
or  personal  force  ever  be  anything  else  than  the  profoundest 
reason,  whether  it  brings  argument  to  hand  or  no.  No 
specification  is  necessary — to  add  or  subtract  or  divide  is 


PREFACE  TO  "  LEAVES  OF  GRASS  "  209 

in  vain.  Little  or  big,  learn'd  or  unlearn'd,  white  or  black, 
legal  or  illegal,  sick  or  well,  from  the  first  inspiration  down 
the  windpipe  to  the  last  expiration  out  of  it,  all  that  a  male 
or  female  does  that  is  vigorous  and  benevolent  and  clean 
is  so  much  sure  profit  to  him  or  her  in  the  unshakable  order 
of  the  universe,  and  through  the  whole  scope  of  it  forever. 
The  prudence  of  the  greatest  poet  answers  at  last  the  craving 
and  glut  of  the  soul,  puts  off  nothing,  permits  no  let-up 
for  its  own  case  or  any  case,  has  no  particular  sabbath  or 
judgment  day,  divides  not  the  living  from  the  dead,  or  the 
righteous  from  the  unrighteous,  is  satisfied  with  the  present, 
matches  every  thought  or  act  by  its  correlative,  and  knows 
no  possible  forgiveness  or  deputed  atonement. 

The  direct  trial  of  him  who  would  be  the  greatest  poet 
is  to-day.  If  he  does  not  flood  himself  with  the  immediate 
age  as  with  vast  oceanic  tides — if  he  be  not  himself  the  age 
transfigured,  and  if  to  him  is  not  open'd  the  eternity  which 
gives  similitude  to  all  periods  and  locations  and  processes, 
and  animate  and  inanimate  forms,  and  which  is  the  bond 
of  time,  and  rises  up  from  its  inconceivable  vagueness  and 
infiniteness  in  the  swimming  shapes  of  to-day,  and  is  held 
by  the  ductile  anchors  of  life,  and  makes  the  present  spot 
the  passage  from  what  was  to  what  shall  be,  and  commits 
itself  to  the  representation  of  this  wave  of  an  hour,  and  this 
one  of  the  sixty  beautiful  children  of  the  wave — let  him 
merge  in  the  general  run,  and  wait  his  development. 

Still  the  final  test  of  poems,  or  any  character  or  work, 
remains.  The  prescient  poet  projects  himself  centuries 
ahead,  and  judges  performer  or  performance  after  the 
changes  of  time.  Does  it  live  through  them?  Does  it 
still  hold  on  untired?  Will  the  same  style,  and  the  direction 
of  genius  to  similar  points,  be  satisfactory  now?  Have  the 
marches  of  tens  and  hundreds  and  thousands  of  years  made 
willing  detours  to  the  right  hand  and  the  left  hand  for  his 


2io  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

sake  ?  Is  he  beloved  long  and  long  after  he  is  buried  ?  Does 
the  young  man  think  often  of  him?  and  the  young  woman 
think  often  of  him  ?  and  do  the  middle-aged  and  the  old  think 
of  him? 

A  great  poem  is  for  ages  and  ages  in  common,  and  for 
all  degrees  and  complexions,  and  all  departments' and  sects, 
and  for  a  woman  as  much  as  a  man,  and  a  man  as  much  as 
a  woman.  A  great  poem  is  no  finish  to  a  man  or  woman, 
but  rather  a  beginning.  Has  anyone  fancied  he  could  sit 
at  last  under  some  due  authority,  and  rest  satisfied  with 
explanations,  and  realize,  and  be  content  and  full?  To  no 
such  terminus  does  the  greatest  poet  bring — he  brings  neither 
cessation  nor  shelter'd  fatness  and  ease.  The  touch  of  him, 
like  Nature,  tells  in  action.  Whom  he  takes  he  takes  with 
firm  sure  grasp  into  live  regions  previously  unattain'd — 
thenceforward  is  no  rest — they  see  the  space  and  ineffable 
sheen  that  turn  the  old  spots  and  lights  into  dead  vacuums. 
Now  there  shall  be  a  man  cohered  out  of  tumult  and  chaos 
— the  elder  encourages  the  younger  and  shows  him  how — 
they  two  shall  launch  off  fearlessly  together  till  the  new 
world  fits  an  orbit  for  itself,  and  looks  unabash'd  on  the 
lesser  orbits  of  the  stars,  and  sweeps  through  the  ceaseless 
rings,  and  shall  never  be  quiet  again. 

There  will  soon  be  no  more  priests.  Their  work  is  done. 
A  new  order  shall  arise,  and  they  shall  be  the  priests  of  man, 
and  every  man  shall  be  his  own  priest.  They  shall  find 
their  inspiration  in  real  objects  to-day,  symptoms  of  the 
past  and  future.  They  shall  not  deign  to  defend  immortality 
or  God,  or  the  perfection  of  things,  or  liberty,  or  the  exquisite 
beauty  and  reality  of  the  soul.  They  shall  arise  in  America, 
and  be  responded  to  from  the  remainder  of  the  earth. 

The  English  language  befriends  the  grand  American  ex 
pression — it  is  brawny  enough,  and  limber  and  full  enough. 
On  the  tough  stock  of  a  race  who  through  all  change  of 


PREFACE  TO  "LEAVES  OF  GRASS"  211 

circumstance  was  never  without  the  idea  of  political  liberty, 
which  is  the  animus  of  all  liberty,  it  has  attracted  the  terms 
of  daintier  and  gayer  and  subtler  and  more  elegant  tongues. 
It  is  the  powerful  language  of  resistance — it  is  the  dialect 
of  common  sense.  It  is  the  speech  of  the  proud  and  melan 
choly  races,  and  of  all  who  aspire.  It  is  the  chosen  tongue 
to  express  growth,  faith,  self-esteem,  freedom,  justice,  equal 
ity,  friendliness,  amplitude,  prudence,  decision,  and  courage. 
It  is  the  medium  that  shall  wellnigh  express  the  in 
expressible. 

No  great  literature  nor  any  like  style  of  behavior  or 
oratory,  or  social  intercourse  or  household  arrangements, 
or  public  institutions,  or  the  treatment  by  bosses  of  em- 
ploy'd  people,  nor  executive  detail,  or  detail  of  the  army 
and  navy,  nor  spirit  of  legislation  or  courts,  or  police  or 
tuition  or  architecture,  or  songs  or  amusements,  can  long 
elude  the  jealous  and  passionate  instinct  of  American 
standards.  Whether  or  no  the  sign  appears  from  the  mouths 
of  the  people,  it  throbs  a  live  interrogation  in  every  free 
man's  and  freewoman's  heart,  after  that  which  passes  by,  or 
this  built  to  remain.  Is  it  uniform  with  my  country?  Are 
its  disposals  without  ignominious  distinctions?  Is  it  for 
the  ever-growing  communes  of  brothers  and  lovers,  large, 
well  united,  proud,  beyond  the  old  models,  generous  beyond 
all  models?  Is  it  something  grown  fresh  out  of  the  fields, 
or  drawn  from  the  sea  for  use  to  me  to-day  here?  I  know 
that  what  answers  for  me,  an  American,  in  Texas,  Ohio, 
Canada,  must  answer  for  any  individual  or  nation  that  serves 
for  a  part  of  my  materials.  Does  this  answer?  Is  it  for 
the  nursing  of  the  young  of  the  republic?  Does  it  solve 
readily  with  the  sweet  milk  of  the  nipples  of  the  breasts  of 
the  Mother  of  Many  Children? 

America  prepares  with  composure  and  good-will  for  the 
visitors  that  have  sent  word.  It  is  not  intellect  that  is  to 


212  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

be  their  warrant  and  welcome.  The  talented,  the  artist, 
the  ingenious,  the  editor,  the  statesman,  the  erudite,  are  not 
unappreciated — they  fall  in  their  place  and  do  their  work. 
The  soul  of  the  nation  also  does  its  work.  It  rejects  none, 
it  permits  all.  Only  toward  the  like  of  itself  will  it  advance 
half-way.  An  individual  is  as  superb  as  a  nation  when  he 
has  the  qualities  which  make  a  superb  nation.  The  soul  of 
the  largest  and  wealthiest  and  proudest  nation  may  well  go 
half-way  to  meet  that  of  its  poets. 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE 
THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 

THE  voyager  from  Europe  who  lands  upon  our  shores 
perceives  a  difference  in  the  sky  above  his  head ;  the  height 
seems  loftier,  the  zenith  more  remote,  the  horizon-wall  more 
steep ;  the  moon  appears  to  hang  in  the  middle  air,  beneath 
a  dome  that  arches  far  beyond  it.  The  sense  of  natural 
symbolism  is  so  strong  in  us,  that  the  mind  seeks  a  spiritual 
significance  in  this  glory  of  the  atmosphere.  It  is  not 
enough  to  find  the  sky  enlarged,  and  not  the  mind, — ccclum, 
non  animum.  One  wishes  to  be  convinced  that  here  the 
intellectual  man  inhales  a  deeper  breath,  and  walks  with 
bolder  tread;  that  philosopher  and  artist  are  here  more 
buoyant,  more  fresh,  more  fertile ;  that  the  human  race  has 
here  escaped  at  one  bound  from  the  despondency  of  ages, 
as  from  their  wrongs. 

And  the  true  and  healthy  Americanism  is  to  be  found, 
let  us  believe,  in  this  attitude  of  hope;  an  attitude  not 
necessarily  connected  with  culture  nor  with  the  absence 
of  culture,  but  with  the  consciousness  of  a  new  impulse 
given  to  all  human  progress.  The  most  ignorant  man  may 
feel  the  full  strength  and  heartiness  of  the  American  idea, 
and  so  may  the  most  accomplished  scholar.  It  is  a  matter 
of  regret  if  thus  far  we  have  mainly  had  to  look  for  our 
Americanism  and  our  scholarship  in  very  different  quarters, 
and  if  it  has  been  a  rare  delight  to  find  the  two  in  one. 

It  seems  unspeakably  important  that  all  persons  among 
us,  and  especially  the  student  and  the  writer,  should  be  per- 

213 


214  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

vaded  with  Americanism.  Americanism  includes  the  faith 
that  national  self-government  is  not  a  chimera,  but  that, 
with  whatever  inconsistencies  and  drawbacks,  we  are  stead 
ily  establishing  it  here.  It  includes  the  faith  that  to  this 
good  thing  all  other  good  things  must  in  time  be  added. 
When  a  man  is  heartily  imbued  with  such  a  national  senti 
ment  as  this,  it  is  as  marrow  in  his  bones  and  blood  in  his 
veins.  He  may  still  need  culture,  but  he  has  the  basis  of  all 
culture.  He  is  entitled  to  an  imperturbable  patience  and 
hopefulness,  born  of  a  living  faith.  All  that  is  scanty  in  our 
intellectual  attainments,  or  poor  in  our  artistic  life,  may 
then  be  cheerfully  endured :  if  a  man  sees  his  house  steadily 
rising  on  sure  foundations,  he  can  wait  or  let  his  children 
wait  for  the  cornice  and  the  frieze.  But  if  one  happens 
to  be  born  or  bred  in  America  without  this  wholesome  con 
fidence,  there  is  no  happiness  for  him ;  he  has  his  alterna 
tive  between  being  unhappy  at  home  and  unhappy  abroad ; 
it  is  a  choice  of  martyrdoms  for  himself,  and  a  certainty  of 
martyrdom  for  his  friends. 

Happily,  there  are  few  among  our  cultivated  men  in  whom 
this  oxygen  of  American  life  is  wholly  wanting.  Where 
such  exist,  for  them  the  path  across  the  ocean  is  easy,  and 
the  return  how  hard !  Yet  our  national  character  develops 
slowly ;  we  are  aiming  at  something  better  than  our  English 
fathers,  and  we  pay  for  it  by  greater  vacillations  and  vibra 
tions  of  movement.  The  Englishman's  strong  point  is  a 
vigorous  insularity  which  he  carries  with  him,  portable  and 
sometimes  insupportable.  The  American's  more  perilous 
gift  is  a  certain  power  of  assimilation,  so  that  he  acquires 
something  from  every  man  he  meets,  but  runs  the  risk 
of  parting  with  something  in  return.  For  the  result,  greater 
possibilities  of  culture,  balanced  by  greater  extremes  of 
sycophancy  and  meanness.  Emerson  says  that  the  Eng 
lishman  of  all  men  stands  most  firmly  on  his  feet.  But  it 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE  215 

is  not  the  whole  of  man's  mission  to  be  found  standing, 
even  at  the  most  important  post.  Let  him  take  one  step 
forward, — and  in  that  advancing  figure  you  have  the 
American. 

We  are  accustomed  to  say  that  the  war  and  its  results 
have  made  us  a  nation,  subordinated  local  distinctions, 
cleared  us  of  our  chief  shame,  and  given  us  the  pride  of 
a  common  career.  This  being  the  case,  we  may  afford 
to  treat  ourselves  to  a  little  modest  self-confidence.  Those 
whose  faith  in  the  American  people  carried  them  hopefully 
through  the  long  contest  with  slavery  will  not  be  daunted 
before  any  minor  perplexities  of  Chinese  immigrants  or 
railway  brigands  or  enfranchised  women.  We  are  equal 
to  these  things;  and  we  shall  also  be  equal  to  the  creation 
of  a  literature.  We  need  intellectual  culture  inexpressibly, 
but  we  need  a  hearty  faith  still  more.  "  Never  yet  was 
there  a  great  migration  that  did  not  result  in  a  new  form 
of  national  genius."  But  we  must  guard  against  both 
croakers  and  boasters ;  and  above  all,  we  must  look  beyond 
our  little  Boston  or  New  York  or  Chicago  or  San  Fran 
cisco,  and  be  willing  citizens  of  the  great  Republic. 

The  highest  aim  of  most  of  our  literary  journals  has  thus 
far  been  to  appear  English,  except  where  some  diverging 
experimentalist  has  said,  "  Let  us  be  German,"  or  "  Let 
us  be  French."  This  was  inevitable ;  as  inevitable  as  a  boy's 
first  imitations  of  Byron  or  Tennyson.  But  it  necessarily 
implied  that  our  literature  must,  during  this  epoch,  be 
second-rate.  We  need  to  become  national,  not  by  any 
conscious  effort,  such  as  implies  attitudinizing  and  con 
straint,  but  by  simply  accepting  our  own  life.  It  is  not 
desirable  to  go  out  of  one's  way  to  be  original,  but  it  is 
to  be  hoped  that  it  may  lie  in  one's  way.  Originality  is 
simply  a  fresh  pair  of  eyes.  If  you  want  to  astonish  the 
whole  world,  said  Rahel,  tell  the  simple  truth.  It  is  easier 


2i6  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

to  excuse  a  thousand  defects  in  the  literary  man  who  pro 
ceeds  on  this  faith,  than  to  forgive  the  one  great  defect 
of  imitation  in  the  purist  who  seeks  only  to  be  English. 
As  Wasson  has  said,  "  The  Englishman  is  undoubtedly  a 
wholesome  figure  to  the  mental  eye ;  but  will  not  twenty 
million  copies  of  him  do,  for  the  present?"  We  must 
pardon  something  to  the  spirit  of  liberty.  We  must  run 
some  risks,  as  all  immature  creatures  do,  in  the  effort  to 
use  our  own  limbs.  Professor  Edward  Channing  used  to 
say  that  it  was  a  bad  sign  for  a  college  boy  to  write  too 
well ;  there  should  be  exuberances  and  inequalities.  A  na 
tion  which  has  but  just  begun  to  create  a  literature  must 
sow  some  wild  oats.  The  most  tiresome  vaingloriousness 
may  be  more  hopeful  than  hypercriticism  and  spleen.  The 
follies  of  the  absurdest  spread-eagle  orator  may  be  far 
more  promising,  because  they  smack  more  of  the  soil,  than 
the  neat  Londonism  of  the  city  editor  who  dissects  him. 

It  is  but  a  few  years  since  we  have  dared  to  be  American 
in  even  the  details  and  accessories  of  our  literary  work; 
to  make  our  allusions  to  natural  objects  real  not  conven 
tional;  to  ignore  the  nightingale  and  skylark,  and  look  for 
the  classic  and  romantic  on  our  own  soil.  This  change 
began  mainly  with  Emerson.  Some  of  us  can  recall  the 
bewilderment  with  which  his  verses  on  the  humblebee,  for 
instance,  were  received,  when  the  choice  of  subject  caused 
as  much  wonder  as  the  treatment.  It  was  called  "  a  foolish 
affectation  of  the  familiar."  Happily  the  atmosphere  of  dis 
tance  forms  itself  rapidly  in  a  new  land,  and  the  poem  has 
now  as  serene  a  place  in  literature  as  if  Andrew  Marvell 
had  written  it.  The  truly  cosmopolitan  writer  is  not  he 
who  carefully  denudes  his  work  of  everything  occasional 
and  temporary,  but  he  who  makes  his  local  coloring  forever 
classic  through  the  fascination  of  the  dream  it  tells.  Reason, 
imagination,  passion,  are  universal;  but  sky,  climate,  cos- 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE  217 

tume,  and  even  type  of  human  character,  belong  to  some  one 
spot  alone  till  they  find  an  artist  potent  enough  to  stamp 
their  associations  on  the  memory  of  all  the  world.  Whether 
his  work  be  picture  or  symphony,  legend  or  lyric,  is  of 
little  moment.  The  spirit  of  the  execution  is  all  in  all. 

As  yet,  we  Americans  have  hardly  begun  to  think  of  the 
details  of  execution  in  any  art.  We  do  not  aim  at  perfec 
tion  of  detail  even  in  engineering,  much  less  in  literature. 
In  the  haste  of  our  national  life,  most  of  our  intellectual 
work  is  done  at  a  rush,  is  something  inserted  in  the  odd 
moments  of  the  engrossing  pursuit.  The  popular  preacher 
becomes  a  novelist;  the  editor  turns  his  paste-pot  and  scis 
sors  to  the  compilation  of  a  history;  the  same  man  must 
be  poet,  wit,  philanthropist,  and  genealogist.  We  find  a 
sort  of  pleasure  in  seeing  this  variety  of  effort,  just  as  the 
bystanders  like  to  see  a  street-musician  adjust  every  joint 
in  his  body  to  a  separate  instrument,  and  play  a  concerted 
piece  with  the  whole  of  himself.  To  be  sure,  he  plays  each 
part  badly,  but  it  is  such  a  wonder  he  should  play  them  all ! 
Thus,  in  our  rather  hurried  and  helter-skelter  training,  the 
man  is  brilliant,  perhaps ;  his  main  work  is  well  done ;  but 
his  secondary  work  is  slurred.  The  book  sells,  no  doubt, 
by  reason  of  the  author's  popularity  in  other  fields;  it  is 
only  the  tone  of  our  national  literature  that  suffers.  There 
is  nothing  in  American  life  that  can  make  concentration 
cease  to  be  a  virtue.  Let  a  man  choose  his  pursuit,  and 
make  all  else  count  for  recreation  only.  Goethe's  advice 
to  Eckermann  is  infinitely  more  important  here  than  it  ever 
was  in  Germany :  "  Beware  of  dissipating  your  powers ; 
strive  constantly  to  concentrate  them.  Genius  thinks  it  can 
do  whatever  it  sees  others  doing,  but  it  is  sure  to  repent 
of  every  ill-judged  outlay." 

In  one  respect,  however,  this  desultory  activity  is  an  ad 
vantage:  it  makes  men  look  in  a  variety  of  directions  for 


218  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

a  standard.  As  each  sect  in  religion  helps  to  protect  us  from 
some  other  sect,  so  every  mental  tendency  is  the  limitation 
of  some  other.  We  need  the  English  culture,  but  we  do 
not  need  it  more  evidently  than  we  need  the  German,  the 
French,  the,  Greek,  the  Oriental.  In  prose  literature,  for 
instance,  the  English  contemporary  models  are  not  enough. 
There  is  an  admirable  vigor  and  heartiness,  a  direct  and 
manly  tone ;  King  Richard  still  lives ;  but  Saladin  also  had 
his  fine  sword-play ;  let  us  see  him.  There  are  the  delightful 
French  qualities, — the  atmosphere  where  literary  art  means 
fineness  of  touch.  "  Ou  il  n'y  a  point  de  delicatesse,  il  n'y 
a  point  de  litterature.  Un  ecrit  ou  ne  se  recontrent  que 
de  la  force  et  un  certain  feu  sans  eclat  n'annonce  qne  le 
caractere."  But  there  is  something  in  the  English  climate 
which  seems  to  turn  the  fine  edge  of  any  very  choice 
scymitar  till  it  cuts  Saladin's  own  fingers  at  last. 

God  forbid  that  I  should  disparage  this  broad  Anglo- 
Saxon  manhood  which  is  the  basis  of  our  national  life. 
I  knew  an  American  mother  who  sent  her  boy  to  Rugby 
School  in  England,  in  the  certainty,  as  she  said,  that  he 
would  there  learn  two  things, — to  play  cricket  and  to  speak 
the  truth.  He  acquired  both  thoroughly,  and  she  brought 
him  home  for  what  she  deemed,  in  comparison,  the  orna 
mental  branches.  We  cannot  spare  the  Englishman  from 
our  blood,  but  it  is  our  business  to  make  him  more  than  an 
Englishman.  That  iron  must  become  steel;  finer,  harder, 
more  elastic,  more  polished.  For  this  end  the  English 
stock  was  transferred  from  an  island  to  a  continent,  and 
mixed  with  new  ingredients,  that  it  might  lose  its  quality 
of  coarseness,  and  take  a  more  delicate  grain. 

As  yet,  it  must  be  owned,  this  daring  expectation  is  but 
feebly  reflected  in  our  books.  In  looking  over  any  col 
lection  of  American  poetry,  for  instance,  one  is  struck  with 
the  fact  that  it  is  not  so  much  faulty  as  inadequate.  Emer- 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE  219 

son  set  free  the  poetic  intuition  of  America,  Hawthorne 
its  imagination.  Both  looked  into  the  realm  of  passion, 
Emerson  with  distrust,  Hawthorne  with  eager  interest; 
but  neither  thrilled  with  its  spell,  and  the  American  poet  of 
passion  is  yet  to  come.  How  tame  and  manageable  are 
wont  to  be  the  emotions  of  our  bards,  how  placid  and 
literary  their  allusions !  There  is  no  baptism  of  fire ;  no 
heat  that  breeds  excess.  Yet  it  is  not  life  that  is  grown 
dull,  surely;  there  are  as  many  secrets  in  every  heart,  as 
many  skeletons  in  every  closet,  as  in  any  elder  period  of 
the  world's  career.  It  is  the  interpreters  of  life  who  are 
found  wanting,  and  that  not  on  this  soil  alone,  but  through 
out  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  It  is  not  just  to  say,  as  someone 
has  said,  that  our  language  has  not  in  this  generation  pro 
duced  a  love-song,,  for  it  has  produced  Browning ;  but  was 
it  in  England  or  in  Italy  that  he  learned  to  sound  the  depths 
of  all  human  emotion? 

And  it  is  not  to  verse  that  this  temporary  check  of  ardor 
applies.  It  is  often  said  that  prose  fiction  now  occupies  the 
place  held  by  the  drama  during  the  Elizabethan  age.  Cer 
tainly  this  modern  product  shows  something  of  the  brilliant 
profusion  of  that  wondrous  flowering  of  genius;  but  here 
the  resemblance  ends.  Where  in  our  imaginative  literature 
does  one  find  the  concentrated  utterance,  the  intense  and 
breathing  life,  the  triumphs  and  despairs,  the  depth  of 
emotion,  the  tragedy,  the  thrill,  that  meet  one  everywhere 
in  those  Elizabethan  pages?  What  impetuous  and  com 
manding  men  are  these,  what  passionate  women ;  how  they 
love  and  hate,  struggle  and  endure;  how  they  play  with 
the  world ;  what  a  trail  of  fire  they  leave  behind  them  as 
they  pass  by !  Turn  now  to  recent  fiction.  Dickens's  people 
are  amusing  and  lovable,  no  doubt ;  Thackeray's  are  wicked 
and  witty;  but  how  under-sized  they  look,  and  how  they 
loiter  on  the  mere  surfaces  of  life,  compared,  I  will  not 


220  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

say  with  Shakespeare's,  but  even  with  Chapman's  and 
Webster's  men.  Set  aside  Hawthorne  in  America,  with 
perhaps  Charlotte  Bronte  and  George  Eliot  in  England,  and 
there  would  scarcely  be  a  fact  in  prose  literature  to  show 
that  we  modern  Anglo-Saxons  regard  a  profound  human 
emotion  as  a  thing  worth  the  painting.  Who  now  dares 
delineate  a  lover,  except  with  good-natured  pitying  sar 
casm,  as  in  David  Copperficld  or  Pendennisf  In  the 
Elizabethan  period,  with  all  its  unspeakable  coarseness,  hot 
blood  still  ran  in  the  veins  of  literature ;  lovers  burned 
and  suffered  and  were  men.  And  what  was  true  of  love 
was  true  of  all  the  passions  of  the  human  soul. 

In  this  respect,  as  in  many  others,  France  has  pre 
served  more  of  the  artistic  tradition.  The  common  criti 
cism,  however,  is,  that  in  modern  French  literature,  as  in 
the  Elizabethan,  the  play  of  feeling  is  too  naked  and  obvious, 
and  that  the  Puritan  self-restraint  is  worth  more  than  all 
that  dissolute  wealth.  I  believe  it ;  and  here  comes  in  the 
intellectual  worth  of  America.  Puritanism  was  a  phase, 
a  discipline,  a  hygiene;  but  we  cannot  remain  always  Puri 
tans.  The  world  needed  that  moral  bracing,  even  for  its 
art;  but  after  all,  life  is  not  impoverished  by  being  ennobled ; 
and  in  a  happier  age,  with  a  larger  faith,  we  may  again 
enrich  ourselves  with  poetry  and  passion,  while  wearing 
that  heroic  girdle  still  around  us.  Then  the  next  blossoming 
of  the  world's  imagination  need  not  bear  within  itself,  like 
all  the  others,  the  seeds  of  an  epoch  of  decay. 

I  utterly  reject  the  position  taken  by  Matthew  Arnold, 
that  the  Puritan  spirit  in  America  was  essentially  hostile 
to  literature  and  art.  Of  course  the  forest  pioneer  cannot 
compose  orchestral  symphonies,  nor  the  founder  of  a  state 
carve  statues.  But  the  thoughtful  and  scholarly  men  who 
created  the  Massachusetts  Colony  brought  with  them  the 
traditions  of  their  universities,  and  left  these  embodied 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE  221 

in  a  college.  The  Puritan  life  was  only  historically  incon 
sistent  with  culture;  there  was  no  logical  antagonism.  In 
deed,  that  life  had  in  it  much  that  was  congenial  to  art, 
in  its  enthusiasm  and  its  truthfulness.  Take  these  Puritan 
traits,  employ  them  in  a  more  genial  sphere,  add  intellectual 
training  and  a  sunny  faith,  and  you  have  a  soil  suited 
to  art  above  all  others.  To  deny  it  is  to  see  in  art  only 
something  frivolous  and  insincere.  The  American  writer 
in  whom  the  artistic  instinct  was  strongest  came  of  un 
mixed  Puritan  stock.  Major  John  Hathorne,  in  1692,  put 
his  offenders  on  trial,  and  generally  convicted  and  hanged 
them  all.  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  held  his  more  spiritual 
tribunal  two  centuries  later,  and  his  keener  scrutiny  found 
some  ground  of  vindication  for  each  one.  The  fidelity, 
the  thoroughness,  the  conscientious  purpose,  were  the  same 
in  each.  Both  sought  to  rest  their  work,  as  all  art  and 
all  law  must  rest,  upon  the  absolute  truth.  The  writer 
kept,  no  doubt,  something  of  the  somberness  of  the  mag 
istrate  ;  each,  doubtless,  suffered  in  the  woes  he  studied ; 
and  as  the  one  "  had  a  knot  of  pain  in  his  forehead  all 
winter"  while  meditating  the  doom  of  Arthur  Dimmesdale, 
so  may  the  other  have  borne  upon  his  own  brow  the  trace 
of  Martha  Corey's  grief. 

No,  it  does  not  seem  to  me  that  the  obstacle  to  a  new 
birth  of  literature  and  art  in  America  lies  in  the  Puritan 
tradition,  but  rather  in  the  timid  and  faithless  spirit  that 
lurks  in  the  circles  of  culture,  and  still  holds  something  of 
literary  and  academic  leadership  in  the  homes  of  the  Puri 
tans.  What  are  the  ghosts  of  a  myriad  Blue  Laws  com 
pared  with  the  transplanted  cynicism  of  one  "  Saturday 
Review  "  ?  How  can  any  noble  literature  germinate  where 
young  men  are  habitually  taught  that  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  originality,  and  that  nothing  remains  for  us  in 
this  effete  epoch  of  history  but  the  mere  recombining  of 


222  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

thoughts  which  sprang  first  from  braver  brains?  It  is 
melancholy  to  see  young  men  come  forth  from  the  college 
walls  with  less  enthusiasm  than  they  carried  in;  trained 
in  a  spirit  which  is  in  this  respect  worse  than  English 
toryism — that  is,  does  not  even  retain  a  hearty  faith  in  the 
past.  It  is  better  that  a  man  should  have  eyes  in  the  back 
of  his  head  than  that  he  should  be  taught  to  sneer  at  even 
a  retrospective  vision.  One  may  believe  that  the  golden 
age  is  behind  us  or  before  us,  but  alas  for  the  forlorn  wisdom 
of  him  who  rejects  it  altogether!  It  is  not  the  climax  of 
culture  that  a  college  graduate  should  emulate  the  obituary 
praise  bestowed  by  Cotton  Mather  on  the  Rev.  John  Mitchell 
of  Cambridge,  "  a  truly  aged  young  man."  Better  a  thou 
sand  times  train  a  boy  on  Scott's  novels  or  the  Border 
Ballads  than  educate  him  to  believe,  on  the  one  side,  that 
chivalry  was  a  cheat  and  the  troubadours  imbeciles,  and 
on  the  other  hand,  that  universal  suffrage  is  an  absurdity 
and  the  one  real  need  is  to  get  rid  of  our  voters.  A  great 
crisis  like  a  civil  war  brings  men  temporarily  to  their  senses, 
and  the  young  resume  the  attitude  natural  to  their  years, 
in  spite  of  their  teachers;  but  it  is  a  sad  thing  when,  in 
seeking  for  the  generous  impulses  of  youth,  we  have  to  turn 
from  the  public  sentiment  of  the  colleges  to  that  of  the 
workshops  and  the  farms. 

It  is  a  thing  not  to  be  forgotten,  that  for  a  long  series 
of  years  the  people  of  our  Northern  States  were  habitually 
in  advance  of  their  institutions  of  learning,  in  courage  and 
comprehensiveness  of  thought.  There  were  long  years  dur 
ing  which  the  most  cultivated  scholar,  so  soon  as  he  em 
braced  an  unpopular  opinion,  was  apt  to  find  the  college 
doors  closed  against  him,  and  only  the  country  lyceum — 
the  people's  college — left  open.  Slavery  had  to  be  abolished 
before  the  most  accomplished  orator  of  the  nation  could 
be  invited  to  address  the  graduates  of  his  own  university. 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE  223 

The  first  among  American  scholars  was  nominated  year 
after  year,  only  to  be  rejected,  before  the  academic  socie 
ties  of  his  own  neighborhood.  Yet  during  all  that  time 
the  rural  lecture  associations  showered  their  invitations  on 
Parker  and  Phillips;  culture  shunned  them,  but  the  com 
mon  people  heard  them  gladly.  The  home  of  real  thought 
was  outside,  not  inside,  the  college  walls.  It  hardly  em 
barrassed  a  professor's  position  if  he  defended  slavery  as 
a  divine  institution ;  but  he  risked  his  place  if  he  denounced 
the  wrong.  In  those  days,  if  by  any  chance  a  man  of 
bold  opinions  drifted  into  a  reputable  professorship,  we 
listened  sadly  to  hear  his  voice  grow  faint.  He  usually 
began  to  lose  his  faith,  his  courage,  his  toleration, — in  short, 
his  Americanism, — when  he  left  the  ranks  of  the  unin- 
structed. 

That  time  is  past;  and  the  literary  class  has  now  come 
more  into  sympathy  with  the  popular  heart.  It  is  perhaps 
fortunate  that  there  is  as  yet  but  little  esprit  de  corps  among 
our  writers,  so  that  they  receive  their  best  sympathy,  not 
from  each  other,  but  from  the  people.  Even  the  memory 
of  our  most  original  authors,  as  Thoreau,  or  Margaret 
Fuller  Ossoli,  is  apt  to  receive  its  sharpest  stabs  from  those 
of  the  same  guild.  When  we  American  writers  find  grace 
to  do  our  best,  it  is  not  so  much  because  we  are  sustained 
by  each  other,  as  that  we  are  conscious  of  a  deep  popular 
heart,  slowly  but  surely  answering  back  to  ours,  and  offering 
a  worthier  stimulus  than  the  applause  of  a  coterie.  If  we 
once  lose  faith  in  our  audience,  the  muse  grows  silent.  Even 
the  apparent  indifference  of  this  audience  to  culture  and 
high  finish  may  be  in  the  end  a  wholesome  influence,  re 
calling  us  to  those  more  important  things,  compared  to 
which  these  are  secondary  qualities.  The  indifference  is 
only  comparative;  our  public  prefers  good  writing,  as  it 
prefers  good  elocution;  but  it  values  energy,  heartiness, 


224  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

and  action  more.  The  public  is  right;  it  is  the  business  of 
the  writer,  as  of  the  speaker,  to  perfect  the  finer  graces 
without  sacrificing  things  more  vital.  "  She  was  not  a  good 
singer,"  says  some  novelist  of  his  heroine,  "  but  she  sang 
with  an  inspiration  such  as  good  singers  rarely  indulge  in." 
Given  those  positive  qualities,  and  I  think  that  a  fine  execu 
tion  does  not  hinder  acceptance  in  America,  but  rather  aids 
it.  Where  there  is  beauty  of  execution  alone,  a  popular 
audience,  even  in  America,  very  easily  goes  to  sleep.  And 
in  such  matters,  as  the  French  actor,  Samson,  said  to  the 
young  dramatist,  "  sleep  is  an  opinion." 

It  takes  more  than  grammars  and  dictionaries  to  make 
a  literature.  "  It  is  the  spirit  in  which  we  act  that  is  the 
great  matter,"  Goethe  says.  Dcr  Geist  aus  dem  wir  handeln 
ist  das  Hochste.  Technical  training  may  give  the  negative 
merits  of  style,  as  an  elocutionist  may  help  a  public  speaker 
by  ridding  him  of  tricks.  But  the  positive  force  of  writing 
or  of  speech  must  come  from  positive  sources, — ardor, 
energy,  depth  of  feeling  or  of  thought.  No  instruction  ever 
gave  these,  only  the  inspiration  of  a  great  soul,  a  great 
need,  or  a  great  people.  We  all  know  that  a  vast  deal  of 
oxygen  may  go  into  the  style  of  a  man ;  we  see  in  it  not 
merely  what  books  he  has  read,  what  company  he  has  kept, 
but  also  the  food  he  eats,  the  exercise  he  takes,  the  air  he 
breathes.  And  so  there  is  oxygen  in  the  collective  literature 
of  a  nation,  and  this  vital  element  proceeds,  above  all  else, 
from  liberty.  For  want  of  this  wholesome  oxygen,  the 
voice  of  Victor  Hugo  comes  to  us  uncertain  and  spasmodic, 
as  of  one  in  an  alien  atmosphere  where  breath  is  pain;  for 
want  of  it,  the  eloquent  English  tones  that  at  first  sounded 
so  clear  and  bell-like  now  reach  us  only  faint  and  muffled, 
and  lose  their  music  day  by  day.  It  is  by  the  presence  of 
this  oxygen  that  American  literature  is  to  be  made  great. 
We  are  lost  if  we  permit  this  inspiration  of  our  nation's 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE  225 

life  to  sustain  only  the  journalist  and  the  stump-speaker, 
while  we  allow  the  colleges  and  the  books  to  be  choked 
with  the  dust  of  dead  centuries  and  to  pant  for  daily 
breath. 

Perhaps  it  may  yet  be  found  that  the  men  who  are  con 
tributing  most  to  raise  the  tone  of  American  literature  are 
the  men  who  have  never  yet  written  a  book  and  have 
scarcely  time  to  read  one,  but  by  their  heroic  energy  in 
other  spheres  are  providing  exemplars  for  what  our  books 
shall  one  day  be.  The  man  who  constructs  a  great  me 
chanical  work  helps  literature,  for  he  gives  a  model  which 
shall  one  day  inspire  us  to  construct  literary  works  as  great. 
I  do  not  wish  to  be  forever  outdone  by  the  carpet-machinery 
of  Clinton  or  the  grain-elevators  of  Chicago.  We  have  not 
yet  arrived  at  our  literature, — other  things  must  come  first ; 
we  are  busy  with  our  railroads,  perfecting  the  vast  ali 
mentary  canal  by  which  the  nation  assimilates  raw  immi 
grants  at  the  rate  of  half  a  milion  a  year.  We  are  not  yet 
producing,  we  are  digesting :  food  now,  literary  composition 
by  and  by:  Shakespeare  did  not  write  Hamlet  at  the 
dinner-table.  It  is  of  course  impossible  to  explain  this  to 
foreigners,  and  they  still  talk  of  convincing,  while  we  talk 
of  dining. 

For  one,  I  cannot  dispense  with  the  society  which  we  call 
uncultivated.  Democratic  sympathies  seem  to  be  mainly  a 
matter  of  vigor  and  health.  It  seems  to  be  the  first  symp 
tom  of  biliousness  to  think  that  only  one's  self  and  one's 
cousins  are  entitled  to  consideration  and  constitute  the 
world.  Every  refined  person  is  an  aristocrat  in  his  dys 
peptic  moments ;  when  hearty  and  well,  he  demands  a  wider 
range  of  sympathy.  It  is  so  tedious  to  live  only  in  one  circle 
and  have  only  a  genteel  acquaintance !  Mrs.  Trench,  in  her 
delightful  letters,  complains  of  the  society  in  Dresden,  about 
the  year  1800,  because  of  "  the  impossibility,  without  over- 


226  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

stepping  all  bounds  of  social  custom,  of  associating  with 
any  but  noblesse."  We  order  that  matter  otherwise  in 
America.  I  wish  not  only  to  know  my  neighbor,  the  man 
of  fashion,  who  strolls  to  his  club  at  noon,  but  also  my 
neighbor,  the  wheelwright,  who  goes  to  his  dinner  at  the 
same  hour.  One  would  not  wish  to  be  unacquainted  with 
the  fair  maiden  who  drives  by  in  her  basket-wagon  in  the 
afternoon ;  nor  with  the  other  fair  maiden,  who  may  be  seen 
at  her  washtub  in  the  morning.  Both  are  quite  worth 
knowing;  both  are  good,  sensible,  dutiful  girls:  the  young 
laundress  is  the  better  mathematician,  because  she  has  gone 
through  the  grammar  school;  but  the  other  has  the  better 
French  accent,  because  she  has  spent  half  her  life  in  Paris. 
They  offer  a  variety,  at  least,  and  save  from  that  monotony 
which  besets  any  set  of  people  when  seen  alone.  There  was 
much  reason  in  Horace  Walpole's  coachman,  who,  having 
driven  the  maids  of  honor  all  his  life,  bequeathed  his  earn 
ings  to  his  son,  on  condition  that  he  should  never  marry 
a  maid  of  honor. 

I  affirm  that  democratic  society,  the  society  of  the  future, 
enriches  and  does  not  impoverish  human  life,  and  gives 
more,  not  less,  material  for  literary  art.  Distributing  cul 
ture  through  all  classes,  it  diminishes  class-distinction  and 
develops  individuality.  Perhaps  it  is  the  best  phenomenon 
of  American  life,  thus  far,  that  the  word  "  gentleman," 
which  in  England  still  designates  a  social  order,  is  here 
more  apt  to  refer  to  personal  character.  When  we  describe 
a  person  as  a  gentleman,  we  usually  refer  to  his  manners, 
morals,  and  education,  not  to  his  property  or  birth;  and 
this  change  alone  is  worth  the  transplantation  across  the 
Atlantic.  The  use  of  the  word  "  lady  "  is  yet  more  com 
prehensive,  and  therefore  more  honorable  still ;  we  some 
times  see,  in  a  shopkeeper's  advertisement,  "  Saleslady 
wanted."  No  doubt  the  mere  fashionable  novelist  loses 


AMERICANISM  IN  LITERATURE  227 

terribly  by  the  change :  when  all  classes  may  wear  the  same 
dress-coat,  what  is  left  for  him  ?  But  he  who  aims  to  depict 
passion  and  character  gains  in  proportion;  his  material  is 
increased  tenfold.  The  living  realities  of  American  life 
ought  to  come  in  among  the  tiresome  lay-figures  of  average 
English  fiction  like  Steven  Lawrence  into  the  London 
drawing-room :  tragedy  must  resume  its  grander  shape,  and 
no  longer  turn  on  the  vexed  question  whether  the  daughter 
of  this  or  that  matchmaker  shall  marry  the  baronet.  .It  is 
the  characteristic  of  a  real  book  that,  though  the  scene  be 
laid  in  courts,  their  whole  machinery  might  be  struck  out 
and  the  essential  interest  of  the  plot  remain  the  same.  In 
Auerbach's  On  the  Heights,  for  instance,  the  social  heights 
might  be  abolished  and  the  moral  elevation  would  be  enough. 
The  play  of  human  emotion  is  a  thing  so  absorbing,  that 
the  petty  distinctions  of  cottage  and  castle  become  as  noth 
ing  in  its  presence.  Why  not  waive  these  small  matters  in 
advance,  then,  and  go  straight  to  the  real  thing? 

The  greatest  transatlantic  successes  which  American 
novelists  have  yet  attained — those  won  by  Cooper  and  Mrs. 
Stowe — have  come  through  a  daring  Americanism  of  sub 
ject,  which  introduced  in  each  case  a  new  figure  to  the 
European  world, — first  the  Indian,  then  the  negro.  What 
ever  the  merit  of  the  work,  it  was  plainly  the  theme  which 
conquered.  Such  successes  are  not  easily  to  be  repeated, 
for  they  were  based  on  temporary  situations  never  to  recur. 
But  they  prepare  the  way  for  higher  triumphs  to  be  won 
by  a  profounder  treatment, — the  introduction  into  literature, 
not  of  new  tribes  alone,  but  of  the  American  spirit.  To 
analyze  combinations  of  character  that  only  our  national 
life  produces,  to  portray  dramatic  situations  that  belong  to 
a  clearer  social  atmosphere, — this  is  the  higher  American 
ism.  Of  course,  to  cope  with  such  themes  in  such  a  spirit  is 
less  easy  than  to  describe  a  foray  or  a  tournament,  or  to  mul- 


228  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

tiply  indefinitely  such  still-life  pictures  as  the  stereotyped 
English  or  French  society  affords ;  but  the  thing  when  once 
done  is  incomparably  nobler.  It  may  be  centuries  before  it  is 
done :  no  matter.  It  will  be  done,  and  with  it  will  come  a 
similar  advance  along  the  whole  line  of  literary  labor,  like  the 
elevation  which  we  have  seen  in  the  whole  quality  of  scien 
tific  work  in  this  country  within  the  last  twenty  years. 

We  talk  idly  about  the  tyranny  of  the  ancient  classics, 
as  if  there  were  some  special  peril  about  it,  quite  distinct 
from  all  other  tyrannies.  But  if  a  man  is  to  be  stunted 
by  the  influence  of  a  master,  it  makes  no  difference  whether 
that  master  lived  before  or  since  the  Christian  epoch.  One 
folio  volume  is  as  ponderous  as  another,  if  it  crushes  down 
the  tender  germs  of  thought.  There  is  no  great  choice 
between  the  volumes  of  the  Encyclopaedia.  It  is  not  im 
portant  to  know  whether  a  man  reads  Homer  or  Dante: 
the  essential  point  is  whether  he  believes  the  world  to  be 
young  or  old;  whether  he  sees  as  much  scope  for  his  own 
inspiration  as  if  never  a  book  had  appeared  in  the  world. 
So  long  as  he  does  this,  he  has  the  American  spirit :  no 
books,  no  travel,  can  overwhelm  him,  for  these  will  only 
enlarge  his  thoughts  and  raise  his  standard  of  execution. 
When  he  loses  this  faith,  he  takes  rank  among  the  copyists 
and  the  secondary,  and  no  accident  can  raise  him  to  a 
place  among  the  benefactors  of  mankind.  He  is  like  a 
man  who  is  frightened  in  battle:  you  cannot  exactly  blame 
him,  for  it  may  be  an  affair  of  the  temperament  or  of  the 
digestion;  but  you  are  glad  to  let  him  drop  to  the  rear, 
and  to  close  up  the  ranks.  Fields  are  won  by  those  who 
believe  in  the  winning. 


[From  Americanism  in  Literature.     Copyright,   1871,  by  James  R. 
Osgood  &  Co.] 


THACKERAY  IN  AMERICA 
GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS 

MR.  THACKERAY'S  visit  at  least  demonstrates  that  if  we 
are  unwilling  to  pay  English  authors  for  their  books,  we 
are  ready  to  reward  them  handsomely  for  the  opportunity 
of  seeing  and  hearing  them.  If  Mr.  Dickens,  instead  of 
dining  at  other  people's  expense,  and  making  speeches  at  his 
own,  when  he  came  to  see  us,  had  devoted  an  evening  or 
two  in  the  week  to  lecturing,  his  purse  would  have  been 
fuller,  his  feelings  sweeter,  and  his  fame  fairer.  It  was  a 
Quixotic  crusade,  that  of  the  Copyright,  and  the  excel 
lent  Don  has  never  forgiven  the  windmill  that  broke  his 
spear. 

Undoubtedly,  when  it  was  ascertained  that  Mr.  Thack 
eray  was  coming,  the  public  feeling  on  this  side  of  the  sea 
was  very  much  divided  as  to  his  probable  reception.  "  He'll 
come  and  humbug  us,  eat  our  dinners,  pocket  our  money, 
and  go  home  and  abuse  us,  like  that  unmitigated  snob 
Dickens,"  said  Jonathan,  chafing  with  the  remembrance 
of  that  grand  ball  at  the  Park  Theater  and  the  Boz  tableaux, 
and  the  universal  wining  and  dining,  to  which  the  distin 
guished  Dickens  was  subject  while  he  was  our  guest. 

"  Let  him  have  his  say,"  said  others,  "  and  we  will  have 
our  look.  We  will  pay  a  dollar  to  hear  him,  if  we  can  see 
him  at  the  same  time ;  and  as  for  the  abuse,  why,  it  takes 
even  more  than  two  such  cubs  of  the  roaring  British  Lion 
to  frighten  the  American  Eagle.  Let  him  come,  and  give 
him  fair  play." 

229 


230  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

He  did  come,  and  had  fair  play,  and  returned  to  England 
with  a  comfortable  pot  of  gold  holding  $12,000,  and  with 
the  hope  and  promise  of  seeing  us  again  in  September, 
to  discourse  of  something  not  less  entertaining  than  the 
witty  men  and  sparkling  times  of  Anne.  We  think  there 
was  no  disappointment  with  his  lectures.  Those  who  knew 
his  books  found  the  author  in  the  lecturer.  Those  who  did 
not  know  his  books  were  charmed  in  the  lecturer  by  what 
is  charming  in  the  author — the  unaffected  humanity,  the 
tenderness,  the  sweetness,  the  genial  play  of  fancy,  and  the 
sad  touch  of  truth,  with  that  glancing  stroke  of  satire  which, 
lightning-like,  illumines  while  it  withers.  The  lectures  were 
even  more  delightful  than  the  books,  because  the  tone  of 
the  voice  and  the  appearance  of  the  man,  the  general  per 
sonal  magnetism,  explained  and  alleviated  so  much  that 
would  otherwise  have  seemed  doubtful  or  unfair.  For 
those  who  had  long  felt  in  the  writings  of  Thackeray  a 
reality  quite  inexpressible,  there  was  a  secret  delight  in  find 
ing  it  justified  in  his  speaking;  for  he  speaks  as  he  writes — 
simply,  directly,  without  flourish,  without  any  cant  of  ora 
tory,  commending  what  he  says  by  its  intrinsic  sense,  and 
the  sympathetic  and  humane  way  in  which  it  was  spoken. 
Thackeray  is  the  kind  of  "  stump  orator  "  that  would  have 
pleased  Carlyle.  He  never  thrusts  himself  between  you 
and  his  thought.  If  his  conception  of  the  time  and  his 
estimate  of  the  men  differ  from  your  own,  you  have  at 
least  no  doubt  what  his  view  is,  nor  how  sincere  and  neces 
sary  it  is  to  him.  Mr.  Thackeray  considers  Swift  a  misan 
thrope  ;  he  loves  Goldsmith  and  Steele  and  Harry  Fielding ; 
he  has  no  love  for  Sterne,  great  admiration  for  Pope,  and 
alleviated  admiration  for  Addison.  How  could  it  be  other 
wise  ?  How  could  Thackeray  not  think  Swift  a  misanthrope 
and  Sterne  a  factitious  sentimentalist?  He  is  a  man  of 
instincts,  not  of  thoughts :  he  sees  and  feels.  He  would  be 


THACKERAY  IN  AMERICA  231 

Shakespeare's  call-boy,  rather  than  dine  with  the  Dean 
of  St.  Patrick's.  He  would  take  a  pot  of  ale  with  Gold 
smith,  rather  than  a  glass  of  burgundy  with  the  "  Reverend 
Mr.  Sterne,"  and  that  simply  because  he  is  Thackeray.  He 
would  have  done  it  as  Fielding  would  have  done  it,  be 
cause  he  values  one  genuine  emotion  above  the  most  dazzling 
thought ;  because  he  is,  in  fine,  a  Bohemian,  "  a  minion  of 
the  moon,"  a  great,  sweet,  generous  heart. 

We  say  this  with  more  unction  now  that  we  have  per 
sonal  proof  of  it  in  his  public  and  private  intercourse  while 
he  was  here. 

The  popular  Thackeray-theory,  before  his  arrival,  was 
of  a  severe  satirist,  who  concealed  scalpels  in  his  sleeves 
and  carried  probes  in  his  waistcoat  pockets ;  a  wearer  of 
masks;  a  scoffer  and  sneerer,  and  general  infidel  of  all 
high  aims  and  noble  character.  Certainly  we  are  justified 
in  saying  that  his  presence  among  us  quite  corrected  this 
idea.  We  welcomed  a  friendly,  genial  man ;  not  at  all  con 
vinced  that  speech  is  heaven's  first  law,  but  willing  to  be 
silent  when  there  is  nothing  to  say;  who  decidedly  refused 
to  be  lionized — not  by  sulking,  but  by  stepping  off  the 
pedestal  and  challenging  the  common  sympathies  of  all  he 
met ;  a  man  who,  in  view  of  the  thirty-odd  editions  of  Martin 
Farquhar  Tupper,  was  willing  to  confess  that  every  author 
should  "  think  small-beer  of  himself."  Indeed,  he  has  this 
rare  quality,  that  his  personal  impression  deepens,  in  kind, 
that  of  his  writings.  The  quiet  and  comprehensive  grasp 
of  the  fact,  and  the  intellectual  impossibility  of  holding  fast 
anything  but  the  fact,  is  as  manifest  in  the  essayist  upon 
the  wits  as  in  the  author  of  Henry  Esmond  and  Vanity 
Fair.  Shall  we  say  that  this  is  the  sum  of  his  power,  and 
the  secret  of  his  satire?  It  is  not  what  might  be,  nor 
what  we  or  other  persons  of  well-regulated  minds  might 
wish,  but  it  is  the  actual  state  of  things  that  he  sees  and 


232  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

describes.  How,  then,  can  he  help  what  we  call  satire,  if 
he  accept  Mrs.  Rawdon  Crawley's  invitation  and  describe 
her  party?  There  was  no  more  satire  in  it,  so  far  as  he  is 
concerned,  than  in  painting  lilies  white.  A  full-length  por 
trait  of  the  fair  Lady  Beatrix,  too,  must  needs  show  a  gay 
and  vivid  figure,  superbly  glittering  across  the  vista  of  those 
stately  days.  Then,  should  Dab  and  Tab,  the  eminent  critics, 
step  up  and  demand  that  her  eyes  be  a  pale  blue,  and  her 
stomacher  higher  around  the  neck  ?  Do  Dab  and  Tab  expect 
to  gather  pears  from  peach-trees  ?  Or,  because  their  theory 
of  dendrology  convinces  them  that  an  ideal  fruit-tree  would 
supply  any  fruit  desired  upon  application,  do  they  denounce 
the  non-pear-bearing  peach-tree  in  the  columns  of  their  valu 
able  journal?  This  is  the  drift  of  the  fault  found  with 
Thackeray.  He  is  not  Fenelon,  he  is  not  Dickens,  he  is  not 
Scott ;  he  is  not  poetical,  he  is  not  ideal,  he  is  not  humane ; 
he  is  not  Tit,  he  is  not  Tat,  complain  the  eminent  Dabs 
and  Tabs.  Of  course  he  is  not,  because  he  is  Thackeray — a 
man  who  describes  what  he  sees,  motives  as  well  as  appear 
ances — a  man  who  believes  that  character  is  better  than 
talent — that  there  is  a  worldly  weakness  superior  to  worldly 
wisdom — that  Dick  Steele  may  haunt  the  ale-house  and  be 
carried  home  muzzy,  and  yet  be  a  more  commendable  char 
acter  than  the  reverend  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's,  who  has 
genius  enough  to  illuminate  a  century,  but  not  sympathy 
enough  to  sweeten  a  drop  of  beer.  And  he  represents  this 
in  a  way  that  makes  us  see  it  as  he  does,  and  without  exag 
geration  ;  for  surely  nothing  could  be  more  simple  than  his 
story  of  the  life  of  "  honest  Dick  Steele."  If  he  allotted 
to  that  gentleman  a  consideration  disproportioned  to  the 
space  he  occupies  in  literary  history,  it  only  showed  the 
more  strikingly  how  deeply  the  writer-lecturer's  sympathy 
was  touched  by  Steele's  honest  humanity. 

An  article  in  our  April  number  complained  that  the  tend- 


THACKERAY  IN  AMERICA  233 

ency  of  his  view  of  Anne's  times  was  to  a  social  laxity, 
which  might  be  very  exhilarating  but  was  very  dangerous ; 
that  the  lecturer's  warm  commendation  of  fermented  drinks, 
taken  at  a  very  early  hour  of  the  morning  in  tavern-rooms 
and  club  houses,  was  as  deleterious  to  the  moral  health  of 
enthusiastic  young  readers  disposed  to  the  literary  life  as 
the  beverage  itself  to  their  physical  health. 

But  this  is  not  a  charge  to  be  brought  against  Thackeray. 
It  is  a  quarrel  with  history  and  with  the  nature  of  literary 
life.  Artists  and  authors  have  always  been  the  good  fel 
lows  of  the  world.  That  mental  organization  which  pre 
disposes  a  man  to  the  pursuit  of  literature  and  art  is  made 
up  of  talent  combined  with  ardent  social  sympathy,  geniality, 
and  passion,  and  leads  him  to  taste  every  cup  and  try  every 
experience.  There  is  certainly  no  essential  necessity  that 
this  class  should  be  a  dissipated  and  disreputable  class,  but 
by  their  very  susceptibility  to  enjoyment  they  will  always 
be  the  pleasure  lovers  and  seekers.  And  here  is  the  social 
compensation  to  the  literary  man  for  the  surrender  of  those 
chances  of  fortune  which  men  of  other  pursuits  enjoy. 
If  he  makes  less  money,  he  makes  more  juice  out  of  what 
he  does  make.  If  he  cannot  drink  burgundy  he  can  quaff 
the  nut-brown  ale ;  while  the  most  brilliant  wit,  the  most 
salient  fancy,  the  sweetest  sympathy,  the  most  genial  cul 
ture,  shall  sparkle  at  his  board  more  radiantly  than  a  silver 
service,  and  give  him  the  spirit  of  the  tropics  and  the  Rhine, 
whose  fruits  are  on  other  tables.  The  golden  light  that 
transfigures  talent  and  illuminates  the  world,  and  which  we 
call  genius,  is  erratic  and  erotic;  and  while  in  Milton  it  is 
austere,  and  in  Wordsworth  cool,  and  in  Southey  method 
ical,  in  Shakespeare  it  is  fervent,  with  all  the  results  of 
fervor;  in  Raphael  lovely,  with  all  the  excesses  of  love; 
in  Dante  moody,  with  all 'the  whims  of  caprice.  The  old 
quarrel  of  Lombard  Street  with  Grub  Street  is  as  profound 


234  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

as  that  of  Osiris  and  Typho — it  is  the  difference  of  sympa 
thy.  The  Marquis  of  Westminster  will  take  good  care 
that  no  superfluous  shilling  escapes.  Oliver  Goldsmith  will 
still  spend  his  last  shilling  upon  a  brave  and  unnecessary 
banquet  to  his  friends. 

Whether  this  be  a  final  fact  of  human  organization  or  not, 
it  is  certainly  a  fact  of  history.  Every  man  instinctively 
believes  that  Shakespeare  stole  deer,  just  as  he  disbelieves 
that  Lord-mayor  Whittington  ever  told  a  lie ;  and  the  secret 
of  that  instinct  is  the  consciousness  of  the  difference  in 
organization.  "  Knave,  I  have  the  power  to  hang  ye,"  says 
somebody  in  one  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  plays.  "  And  I 
do  be  hanged  and  scorn  ye,"  is  the  airy  answer.  "  I  had 
a  pleasant  hour  the  other  evening,"  said  a  friend  to  us, 
"  over  my  cigar  and  a  book."  "What  book  was  that?" 
"  A  treatise  conclusively  proving  the  awful  consequences  of 
smoking."  De  Quincey  came  up  to  London  and  declared 
war  upon  opium;  but  during  a  little  amnesty,  in  which  he- 
lapsed  into  his  old  elysium,  he  wrote  his  best  book  depicting 
its  horrors. 

Our  readers  will  not  imagine  that  we  are  advocating  the 
claims  of  drunkenness  nor  defending  social  excess.  We 
are  only  recognizing  a  fact  and  stating  an  obvious  tendency. 
The  most  brilliant  illustrations  of  every  virtue  are  to  be 
found  in  the  literary  guild,  as  well  as  the  saddest  beacons 
of  warning;  yet  it  will  often  occur  that  the  last  in 
talent  and  the  first  in  excess  of  a  picked  company  will 
be  a  man  around  whom  sympathy  most  kindly  lingers. 
We  love  Goldsmith  more  at  the  head  of  an  ill-advised  feast 
than  Johnson  and  his  friends  leaving  it,  thoughtful  and 
generous  as  their  conduct  was.  The  heart  despises 
prudence. 

In  the  single-hearted  regard  we  know  that  pity  has  a  larger 
share.  Yet  it  is  not  so  much  that  pity  which  is  commisera- 


THACKERAY  IN  AMERICA  235 

tion  for  misfortune  and  deficiency,  as  that  which  is  recogni 
tion  of  a  necessary  worldly  ignorance.  The  literary  class 
is  the  most  innocent  of  all.  The  contempt  of  practical  men 
for  the  poets  is  based  upon  a  consciousness  that  they  are 
not  bad  enough  for  a  bad  world.  To  a  practical  man  noth 
ing  is  so  absurd  as  the  lack  of  worldly  shrewdness.  The 
very  complaint  of  the  literary  life  that  it  does  not  amass 
wealth  and  live  in  palaces  is  the  scorn  of  the  practical  man, 
for  he  cannot  understand  that  intellectual  opacity  which 
prevents  the  literary  man  from  seeing  the  necessity  of  the 
different  pecuniary  condition.  It  is  clear  enough  to  the 
publisher  who  lays  up  fifty  thousand  a  year  why  the  author 
ends  the  year  in  debt.  But  the  author  is  amazed  that  he 
who  deals  in  ideas  can  only  dine  upon  occasional  chops, 
while  the  man  who  merely  binds  and  sells  ideas  sits  down 
to  perpetual  sirloin.  If  they  should  change  places,  fortune 
would  change  with  them.  The  publisher  turned  author 
would  still  lay  up  his  thousands ;  the  publishing  author 
would  still  directly  lose  thousands.  It  is  simply  because  it 
is  a  matter  of  prudence,  economy,  and  knowledge  of  the 
world.  Thomas  Hood  made  his  ten  thousand  dollars  a 
year,  but  if  he  lived  at  the  rate  of  fifteen  thousand  he  would 
hardly  die  rich.  Mr.  Jerdan,  a  gentleman  who,  in  his 
Autobiography,  advises  energetic  youth  to  betake  themselves 
to  the  highway  rather  than  to  literature,  was,  we  understand, 
in  the  receipt  of  an  easy  income,  and  was  a  welcome  guest 
in  pleasant  houses;  but  living  in  a  careless,  shiftless,  ex 
travagant  way,  he  was  presently  poor,  and,  instead  of  giving 
his  memoirs  the  motto,  pcccavi,  and  inditing  a  warning,  he 
dashes  off  a  truculent  defiance.  Practical  publishers  and 
practical  men  of  all  sorts  invest  their  earnings  in  Michigan 
Central  or  Cincinnati  and  Dayton  instead,  in  steady  works 
and  devoted  days,  and  reap  a  pleasant  harvest  of  dividends. 
Our  friends  the  authors  invest  in  prime  Havanas,  Rhenish, 


236  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

in  oyster  suppers,  love  and  leisure,  and  divide  a  heavy 
percentage  of  headache,  dyspepsia,  and  debt. 

This  is  as  true  a  view,  from  another  point,  as  the  one 
we  have  already  taken.  If  the  literary  life  has  the  pleasures 
of  freedom,  it  has  also  its  pains.  It  may  be  willing  to  resign 
the  queen's  drawing-room,  with  the  illustrious  galaxy  of 
stars  and  garters,  for  the  chamber  with  a  party  nobler  than 
the  nobility.  The  author's  success  is  of  a  wholly  different 
kind  from  that  of  the  publisher,  and  he  is  thoughtless  who 
demands  both.  Mr.  Roe,  who  sells  sugar,  naturally  com 
plains  that  Mr.  Doe,  who  sells  molasses,  makes  money  more 
rapidly.  But  Mr.  Tennyson,  who  writes  poems,  can  hardly 
make  the  same  complaint  of  Mr.  Moxon,  who  publishes 
them,  as  was  very  fairly  shown  in  a  number  of  the  West 
minster  Review,  when  noticing  Mr.  Jerdan's  book. 

What  we  have  said  is  strictly  related  to  Mr.  Thackeray's 
lectures,  which  discuss  literature.  All  the  men  he  com 
memorated  were  illustrations  and  exponents  of  the  career 
of  letters.  They  all,  in  various  ways,  showed  the  various 
phenomena  of  the  temperament.  And  when  in  treating 
of  them  the  critic  came  to  Steele,  he  found  one  who  was  one 
of  the  most  striking  illustrations  of  one  of  the  most  uni 
versal  aspects  of  literary  life — the  simple-hearted,  unsuspi 
cious,  gay  gallant  and  genial  gentleman ;  ready  with  his 
sword  or  his  pen,  with  a  smile  or  a  tear,  the  fair  repre 
sentative  of  the  social  tendency  of  his  life.  It  seems  to  us 
that  the  Thackeray  theory — the  conclusion  that  he  is  a 
man  who  loves  to  depict  madness,  and  has  no  sensibilities 
to  the  finer  qualities  of  character — crumbled  quite  away  be 
fore  that  lecture  upon  Steele.  We  know  that  it  was  not 
considered  the  best ;  we  know  that  many  of  the  delighted 
audience  were  not  sufficiently  familiar  with  literary  history 
fully  to  understand  the  position  of  the  man  in  the  lecturer's 
review;  but,  as  a  key  to  Thackeray,  it  was,  perhaps,  the 


THACKERAY  IN  AMERICA  237 

most  valuable  of  all.  We  know  in  literature  of  no  more 
gentle  treatment;  we  have  not  often  encountered  in  men 
of  the  most  rigorous  and  acknowledged  virtue  such  humane 
tenderness ;  we  have  not  often  heard  from  the  most  clerical 
lips  words  of  such  genuine  Christianity.  Steele's  was  a 
character  which  makes  weakness  amiable:  it  was  a  weak 
ness,  if  you  will,  but  it  was  certainly  amiability,  and  it  was 
a  combination  more  attractive  than  many  full-panoplied  ex 
cellences.  It  was  not  presented  as  a  model.  Captain  Steele 
in  the  tap-room  was  not  painted  as  the  ideal  of  virtuous  man 
hood;  but  it  certainly  was  intimated  that  many  admirable 
things  were  consonant  with  a  free  use  of  beer.  It  was 
frankly  stated  that  if,  in  that  character,  virtue  abounded, 
cakes  and  ale  did  much  more  abound.  Captain  Richard 
Steele  might  have  behaved  much  better  than  he  did,  but 
we  should  then  have  never  heard  of  him.  A  few  fine  essays 
do  not  float  a  man  into  immortality,  but  the  generous  char 
acter,  the  heart  sweet  in  all  excesses  and  under  all  chances, 
is  a  spectacle  too  beautiful  and  too  rare  to  be  easily  for 
gotten.  A  man  is  better  than  many  books.  Even  a  man 
who  is  not  immaculate  may  have  more  virtuous  influence 
than  the  discreetest  saint.  Let  us  remember  how  fondly 
the  old  painters  lingered  round  the  story  of  Magdalen,  and 
thank  Thackeray  for  his  full-length  Steele. 

We  conceive  this  to  be  the  chief  result  of  Thackeray's 
visit,  that  he  convinced  us  of  his  intellectual  integrity; 
he  showed  us  how  impossible  it  is  for  him  to  see  the  world 
and  describe  it  other  than  he  does.  He  does  not  profess 
cynicism,  nor  satirize  society  with  malice;  there  is  no  man 
more  humble,  none  more  simple;  his  interests  are  human 
and  concrete,  not  abstract.  We  have  already  said  that  he 
looks  through  and  through  at  the  fact.  It  is  easy  enough, 
and  at  some  future  time  it  will  be  done,  to  deduce  the  pecu 
liarity  of  his  writings  from  the  character  of  his  mind. 


238  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

There  is  no  man  who  masks  so  little  as  he  in  assuming  the 
author.  His  books  are  his  observations  reduced  to  writing. 
It  seems  to  us  as  singular  to  demand  that  Dante  should 
be  like  Shakespeare  as  to  quarrel  with  Thackeray's  want 
of  what  is  called  ideal  portraiture.  Even  if  you  thought, 
from  reading  his  Vanity  Fair,  that  he  had  no  conception  of 
noble  women,  certainly  after  the  lecture  upon  Swift,  after  all 
the  lectures,  in  which  every  allusion  to  women  was  so  manly 
and  delicate  and  sympathetic,  you  thought  so  no  longer. 
It  is  clear  that  his  sympathy  is  attracted  to  women — to  that 
which  is  essentially  womanly,  feminine.  Qualities  com 
mon  to  both  sexes  do  not  necessarily  charm  him  because 
he  finds  them  in  women.  A  certain  degree  of  goodness  must 
always  be  assumed.  It  is  only  the  rare  flowering  that  in 
spires  special  praise.  You  call  Amelia's  fondness  for  George 
Osborne  foolish,  fond  idolatry.  Thackeray  smiles,  as  if 
all  love  were  not  idolatry  of  the  fondest  foolishness.  What 
was  Hero's — what  was  Francesca  da  Rimini's — what  was 
Juliet's  ?  They  might  have  been  more  brilliant  women  than 
Amelia,  and  their  idols  of  a  larger  mold  than  George,  but 
the  love  was  the  same  old  foolish,  fond  idolatry.  The 
passion  of  love  and  a  profound  and  sensible  knowledge, 
regard  based  upon  prodigious  knowledge  of  character  and 
appreciation  of  talent,  are  different  things.  What  is  the 
historic  and  poetic  splendor  of  love  but  the  very  fact,  which 
constantly  appears  in  Thackeray's  stones,  namely,  that  it  is 
a  glory  which  dazzles  and  blinds.  Men  rarely  love  the 
women  they  ought  to  love,  according  to  the  ideal  standards. 
It  is  this  that  makes  the  plot  and  mystery  of  life.  Is  it  not 
the  perpetual  surprise  of  all  Jane's  friends  that  she  should 
love  Timothy  instead  of  Thomas  ?  and  is  not  the  courtly  and 
accomplished  Thomas  sure  to  surrender  to  some  accidental 
Lucy  without  position,  wealth,  style,  worth,  culture — with 
out  anything  but  heart?  This  is  the  fact,  and  it  reappears 


THACKERAY  IN  AMERICA  239 

in  Thackeray,  and  it  gives  his  books  that  air  of  reality  which 
they  possess  beyond  all  modern  story. 

And  it  is  this  single  perception  of  the  fact  which,  simple 
as  it  is,  is  the  rarest  intellectual  quality  that  made  his  lectures 
so  interesting.  The  sun  rose  again  upon  the  vanished  cen 
tury,  and  lighted  those  historic  streets.  The  wits  of  Queen 
Anne  ruled  the  hour,  and  we  were  bidden  to  their  feast. 
Much  reading  of  history  and  memoirs  had  not  so  sent  the 
blood  into  those  old  English  cheeks,  and  so  moved  those 
limbs  in  proper  measure,  as  these  swift  glances  through 
the  eyes  of  genius.  It  was  because,  true  to  himself,  Thack 
eray  gave  us. his  impression  of  those  wits  as  men  rather 
than  authors.  For  he  loves  character  more  than  thought. 
He  is  a  man  of  the  world,  and  not  a  scholar.  He  interprets 
the  author  by  the  man.  When  you  are  made  intimate  with 
young  Swift,  Sir  William  Temple's  saturnine  secretary,  you 
more  intelligently  appreciate  the  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's. 
When  the  surplice  of  Mr.  Sterne  is  raised  a  little,  more 
is  seen  than  the  reverend  gentleman  intends.  Hogarth,  the 
bluff  Londoner,  necessarily  depicts  a  bluff,  coarse,  obvious 
morality.  The  hearty  Fielding,  the  cool  Addison,  the  genial 
Goldsmith,  these  are  the  figures  that  remain  in  memory, 
and  their  works  are  valuable  as  they  indicate  the  man. 

Mr.  Thackeray's  success  was  very  great.  He  did  not 
visit  the  West,  nor  Canada.  He  went  home  without  seeing 
Niagara  Falls.  But  wherever  he  did  go  he  found  a  gen 
erous  and  social  welcome,  and  a  respectful  and  sympa 
thetic  hearing.  He  came  to  fulfill  no  mission,  but  he  cer 
tainly  knit  more  closely  our  sympathy  with  Englishmen. 
Heralded  by  various  romantic  memoirs,  he  smiled  at  them, 
stoutly  asserted  that  he  had  been  always  able  to  command 
a  good  dinner,  and  to  pay  for  it ;  nor  did  he  seek  to  dis 
guise  that  he  hoped  his  American  tour  would  help  him  to 
command  and  pay  for  more.  He  promised  not  to  write 


240  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

a  book  about  us,  but  we  hope  he  will,  for  we  can  ill  spare 
the  criticism  of  such  an  observer.  At  least,  we  may  be  sure 
that  the  material  gathered  here  will  be  worked  up  in  some 
way.  He  found  that  we  were  not  savages  nor  bores.  He 
found  that  there  were  a  hundred  here  for  every  score  in 
England  who  knew  well  and  loved  the  men  of  whom  he 
spoke.  He  found  that  the  same  red  blood  colors  all  the 
lips  that  speak  the  language  he  so  nobly  praised.  He  found 
friends  instead  of  critics.  He  found  those  who,  loving 
the  author,  loved  the  man  more.  He  found  a  quiet  wel 
come  from  those  who  are  waiting  to  welcome  him  again 
and  as  sincerely. 


[From  Literary  and  Social  Essays,  by  George  William  Curtis.    Copy 
right,  1894,  by  Harper  &  Brothers.] 


OUR  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON 
THEODORE  WINTHROP 

THROUGH   THE   CITY 

AT  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  Friday,  April  19,  we 
took  our  peacemaker,  a  neat  twelve-pound  brass  howitzer, 
down  from  the  Seventh  Regiment  Armory,  and  stationed  it 
in  the  rear  of  the  building.  The  twin  peacemaker  is  some 
where  near  us,  but  entirely  hidden  by  this  enormous  crowd. 

An  enormous  crowd !  of  both  sexes,  of  every  age  and 
condition.  The  men  offer  all  kinds  of  truculent  and  pa 
triotic  hopes ;  the  women  shed  tears,  and  say,  "  God  bless 
you,  boys !  " 

This  is  a  part  of  the  town  where  baddish  cigars  prevail. 
But  good  or  bad,  I  am  ordered  to  keep  all  away  from  the 
gun.  So  the  throng  stands  back,  peers  curiously  over  the 
heads  of  its  junior  members,  and  seems  to  be  taking  the 
measure  of  my  coffin. 

After  a  patient  hour  of  this,  the  word  is  given,  we  fall 
in,  our  two  guns  find  their  places  at  the  right  of  the  line 
of  march,  we  move  on  through  the  thickening  crowd. 

At  a  great  house  on  the  left,  as  we  pass  the  Astor 
Library,  I  see  a  handkerchief  waving  for  me.  Yes !  it  is 
she  who  made  the  sandwiches  in  my  knapsack.  They  were 
a  trifle  too  thick,  as  I  afterwards  discovered,  but  otherwise 
perfection.  Be  these  my  thanks  and  the  thanks  of  hungry 
comrades  who  had  bites  of  them ! 

At  the  corner  of  Great  Jones  Street  we  halted  for  half 

241 


242  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

an  hour, — then,  everything  ready,  we  marched  down 
Broadway. 

It  was  worth  a  life,  that  march.  Only  one  who  passed, 
as  we  did,  through  that  tempest  of  cheers,  two  miles  long, 
can  know  the  terrible  enthusiasm  of  the  occasion.  I  could 
hardly  hear  the  rattle' of  our  own  gun-carriages,  and  only 
once  or  twice  the  music  of  our  band  came  to  me  muffled 
and  quelled  by  the  uproar.  We  knew  now,  if  we  had  not 
before  divined  it,  that  our  great  city  was  with  us  as  one 
man,  utterly  united  in  the  great  cause  we  were  marching 
to  sustain. 

This  grand  fact  I  learned  by  two  senses.  If  hundreds 
of  thousands  roared  it  into  my  ears,  thousands  slapped 
it  into  my  back.  My  fellow-citizens  smote  me  on  the  knap 
sack,  as  I  went  by  at  the  gun-rope,  and  encouraged  me  each 
in  his  own  dialect.  "  Bully  for  you !  "  alternated  with 
benedictions,  in  the  proportion  of  two  "  bullies  "  to  one 
blessing. 

I  was  not  so  fortunate  as  to  receive  more  substantial 
tokens  of  sympathy.  But  there  were  parting  gifts  showered 
on  the  regiment,  enough  to  establish  a  variety-shop.  Hand 
kerchiefs,  of  course,  came  floating  down  upon  us  from 
the  windows,  like  a  snow.  Pretty  little  gloves  pelted  us 
with  love-taps.  The  sterner  sex  forced  upon  us  pocket- 
knives  new  and  jagged,  combs,  soap,  slippers,  boxes  of 
matches,  cigars  by  the  dozen  and  the  hundred,  pipes  to 
smoke  shag  and  pipes  to  smoke  Latakia,  fruit,  eggs,  and 
sandwiches.  One  fellow  got  a  new  purse  with  ten  bright 
quarter-eagles. 

At  the  corner  of  Grand  Street,  or  thereabouts,  a  "  bhoy  " 
in  red  flannel  shirt  and  black  dress  pantaloons,  leaning  back 
against  the  crowd  with  Herculean  shoulders,  called  me, — 
"  Saay,  bully !  take  my  dorg !  he's  one  of  the  kind  that  holds 
till  he  draps."  This  gentleman,  with  his  animal,  was  in- 


OUR  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON  243 

stantly  shoved  back  by  the  police,  and  the  Seventh  lost  the 
"  dorg." 

These  were  the  comic  incidents  of  the  march,  but  under 
lying  all  was  the  tragic  sentiment  that  we  might  have  tragic 
work  presently  to  do.  The  news  of  the  rascal  attack  in 
Baltimore  on  the  Massachusetts  Sixth  had  just  come  in. 
Ours  might  be  the  same  chance.  If  there  were  any  of  us 
not  in  earnest  before,  the  story  of  the  day  would  steady 
us.  So  we  said  good-by  to  Broadway,  moved  down  Cort- 
landt  Street  under  a  bower  of  flags,  and  at  half-past  six 
shoved  off  in  the  ferry-boat. 

Everybody  has  heard  how  Jersey  City  turned  out  and 
filled  up  the  Railroad  Station,  like  an  opera-house,  to  give 
God-speed  to  us  as  a  representative  body,  a  guaranty  of 
the  unquestioning  loyalty  of  the  "  conservative "  class  in 
New  York.  Everybody  has  heard  how  the  State  of  New 
Jersey,  along  the  railroad  line,  stood  through  the  evening 
and  the  night  to  shout  their  quota  of  good  wishes.  At 
every  station  the  Jerseymen  were  there,  uproarious  as  Jer- 
seymen,  to  shake  our  hands  and  wish  us  a  happy  despatch. 
I  think  I  did  not  see  a  rod  of  ground  without  its  man,  from 
dusk  till  dawn,  from  the  Hudson  to  the  Delaware. 

Upon  the  train  we  made  a  jolly  night  of  it.  All  knew 
that  the  more  a  man  sings,  the  better  he  is  likely  to  fight. 
So  we  sang  more  than  we  slept,  and,  in  fact,  that  has  been 
our  history  ever  since. 

PHILADELPHIA 

At  sunrise  we  were  at  the  station  in  Philadelphia,  and  dis 
missed  for  an  hour.  Some  hundreds  of  us  made  up  Broad 
Street  for  the  Lapierre  House  to  breakfast.  When  I  ar 
rived,  I  found  every  place  at  table  filled  and  every  waiter 
ten  deep  with  orders.  So,  being  an  old  campaigner,  I  fol- 


244  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

lowed  up  the  stream  of  provender  to  the  fountain-head,  the 
kitchen.  Half  a  dozen  other  old  campaigners  were  already 
there,  most  hospitably  entertained  by  the  cooks.  They 
served  us,  hot  and  hot,  with  the  best  of  their  best,  straight 
from  the  gridiron  and  the  pan.  I  hope,  if  I  live  to  break 
fast  again  in  the  Lapierre  House,  that  I  may  be  allowed 
to  help  myself  and  choose  for  myself  below-stairs. 

When  we  rendezvoused  at  the  train,  we  found  that  the 
orders  were  for  every  man  to  provide  himself  three  days' 
rations  in  the  neighborhood,  and  be  ready  for  a  start  at 
a  moment's  notice. 

A  mountain  of  bread  was  already  piled  up  in  the  station. 
I  stuck  my  bayonet  through  a  stout  loaf,  and,  with  a  dozen 
comrades  armed  in  the  same  way,  went  foraging  about  for 
other  vivers. 

It  is  a  poor  part  of  Philadelphia ;  but  whatever  they  had 
in  the  shops  or  the  houses  seemed  to  be  at  our  disposition. 

I  stopped  at  a  corner  shop  to  ask  for  pork,  and  was 
amicably  assailed  by  an  earnest  dame, — Irish,  I  am  pleased 
to  say.  She  thrust  her  last  loaf  upon  me,  and  sighed  that 
it  was  not  baked  that  morning  for  my  "  honor's  service." 

A  little  farther  on,  two  kindly  Quaker  ladies  compelled 
me  to  step  in.  "  What  could  they  do  ?  "  they  asked  eagerly. 
"  They  had  no  meat  in  the  house ;  but  could  we  eat  eggs  ? 
They  had  in  the  house  a  dozen  and  a  half,  new-laid."  So 
the  pot  to  the  fire,  and  the  eggs  boiled,  and  bagged  by  myself 
and  that  tall  Saxon,  my  friend  E.,  of  the  Sixth  Company. 
While  the  eggs  simmered,  the  two  ladies  thee-ed  us  prayer 
fully  and  tearfully,  hoping  that  God  would  save  our  country 
from  blood,  unless  blood  must  be  shed  to  preserve  Law 
and  Liberty. 

Nothing  definite  from  Baltimore  when  we  returned  to 
the  station.  We  stood  by,  waiting  orders.  About  noon  the 
Eighth  Massachusetts  Regiment  took  the  train  southward. 


OUR  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON  245 

Our  regiment  was  ready  to  a  man  to  try  its  strength  with 
the  Plug  Uglies.  If  there  had  been  any  voting  on  the 
subject,  the  plan  to  follow  the  straight  road  to  Washington 
would  have  been  accepted  by  acclamation.  But  the  higher 
powers  deemed  that  "  the  longest  way  round  was  the  shortest 
way  home,"  and  no  doubt  their  decision  was  wise.  The 
event  proved  it. 

At  two  o'clock  came  the  word  to  "  fall  in."  We  handled 
our  howitzers  again,  and  marched  down  Jefferson  Avenue 
to  the  steamer  "  Boston  "  to  embark. 

To  embark  for  what  port  ?  For  Washington,  of  course, 
finally;  but  by  what  route?  That  was  to  remain  in  doubt 
to  us  privates  for  a  day  or  two. 

The  "  Boston  "  is  a  steamer  of  the  outside  line  from 
Philadelphia  to  New  York.  She  just  held  our  legion.  We 
tramped  on  board,  and  were  allotted  about  the  craft  from 
the  top  to  the  bottom  story.  We  took  tents,  traps,  and 
grub  on  board,  and  steamed  away  down  the  Delaware  in 
the  sweet  afternoon  of  April.  If  ever  the  heavens  smiled 
fair  weather  on  any  campaign,  they  have  done  so  on  ours. 


THE 

Soldiers  on  shipboard  are  proverbially  fish  out  of  water. 
We  could  not  be  called  by  the  good  old  nickname  of  "  lob 
sters  "  by  the  crew.  Our  gray  jackets  saved  the  sobriquet. 
But  we  floundered  about  the  crowded  vessel  like  boiling 
victims  in  a  pot.  At  last  we  found  our  places,  and  laid 
ourselves  about  the  decks  to  tan  or  bronze  or  burn  scarlet, 
according  to  complexion.  There  were  plenty  of  cheeks  of 
lobster-hue  before  next  evening  on  the  "  Boston." 

A  thousand  young  fellows  turned  loose  on  shipboard  were 
sure  to  make  themselves  merry.  Let  the  reader  imagine 
that!  We  were  like  any  other  excursionists,  except  that 


246  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

the  stacks  of  bright  guns  were  always  present  to  remind 
us  of  our  errand,  and  regular  guard-mounting  and  drill 
went  on  all  the  time.  The  young  citizens  growled .  or 
laughed  at  the  minor  hardships  of  the  hasty  outfit,  and 
toughened  rapidly  to  business. 

Sunday,  the  2ist,  was  a  long  and  somewhat  anxious  day. 
While  we  were  bowling  along  in  the  sweet  sunshine  and 
sweeter  moonlight  of  the  halcyon  time,  Uncle  Sam  might 
be  dethroned  by  somebody  in  buckram,  or  Baltimore  burnt 
by  the  boys  from  Lynn  or  Marblehead,  revenging  the  mas 
sacre  of  their  fellows.  Everyone  begins  to  comprehend  the 
fiery  eagerness  of  men  who  live  in  historic  times.  "  I  wish 
I  had  control  of  chain-lightning  for  a  few  minutes," 
says  O.,  the  droll  fellow  of  our  company.  "  I'd  make 
it  come  thick  and  heavy  and  knock  spots  out  of  Seces 
sion." 

At  early  dawn  of  Monday,  the  22d,  after  feeling  along 
slowly  all  night,  we  see  the  harbor  of  Annapolis.  A  frigate 
with  sails  unbent  lies  at  anchor.  She  flies  the  stars  and 
stripes.  Hurrah ! 

A  large  steamboat  is  aground  farther  in.  As  soon  as  we 
can  see  anything,  we  catch  the  glitter  of  bayonets  on  board. 

By  and  by  boats  come  off,  and  we  get  news  that  the 
steamer  is  the  "  Maryland,"  a  ferry-boat  of  the  Philadelphia 
and  Baltimore  Railroad.  The  Massachusetts  Eighth  Regi 
ment  had  been  just  in  time  to  seize  her  on  the  north  side 
of  the  Chesapeake.  They  learned  that  she  was  to  be  car 
ried  off  by  the  crew  and  leave  them  blockaded.  So  they 
shot  their  Zouaves  ahead  as  skirmishers.  The  fine  fellows 
rattled  on  board,  and  before  the  steamboat  had  time  to  take 
a  turn  or  open  a  valve,  she  was  held  by  Massachusetts  in 
trust  for  Uncle  Sam.  Hurrah  for  the  most  important  prize 
thus  far  in  the  war !  It  probably  saved  the  "  Constitution," 
"  Old  Ironsides,"  from  capture  by  the  traitors.  It  probably 


OUR  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON  247 

saved  Annapolis,  and  kept  Maryland  open  without  blood 
shed. 

As  soon  as  the  Massachusetts  Regiment  had  made  prize 
of  the  ferry-boat,  a  call  was  made  for  engineers  to  run  her. 
Some  twenty  men  at  once  stepped  to  the  front.  We  of  the 
New  York  Seventh  afterwards  concluded  that  whatever 
was  needed  in  the  way  of  skill  or  handicraft  could  be 
found  among  those  brother  Yankees.  They  were  the  men 
to  make  armies  of.  They  could  tailor  for  themselves,  shoe 
themselves,  do  their  own  blacksmithing,  gun-smithing,  and 
all  other  work  that  calls  for  sturdy  arms  and  nimble  fingers. 
In  fact,  I  have  such  profound  confidence  in  the  universal 
accomplishment  of  the  Massachusetts  Eighth,  that  I  have 
no  doubt,  if  the  order  were,  "  Poets  to  the  front !  "  "  Paint 
ers  present  arms  !  "  "  Sculptors  charge  bayonets !  "  a  baker's 
dozen  out  of  every  company  would  respond. 

Well,  to  go  on  with  their  story, — when  they  had  taken 
their  prize,  they  drove  her  straight  downstream  to  An 
napolis,  the  nearest  point  to  Washington.  There  they  found 
the  Naval  Academy  in  danger  of  attack,  and  "  Old  Iron 
sides  " — serving  as  a  practice-ship  for  the  future  midship 
men — also  exposed.  The  call  was  now  for  seamen  to  man 
the  old  craft  and  save  her  from  a  worse  enemy  than  her  pro 
totype  met  in  the  "  Guerriere."  Seamen?  Of  course!  They 
were  Marbleheaded  men,  Gloucester  men,  Beverly  men,  sea 
men  all,  par  excellence!  They  clapped  on  the  frigate  to 
aid  the  middies,  and  by  and  by  started  her  out  into  the 
stream.  In  doing  this  their  own  pilot  took  the  chance  to 
run  them  purposely  on  a  shoal  in  the  intricate  channel.  A 
great  error  of  judgment  on  his  part!  as  he  perceived,  when 
he  found  himself  in  irons  and  in  confinement.  "  The  days 
of  trifling  with  traitors  are  over !  "  think  the  Eighth  Regi 
ment  of  Massachusetts. 

But  there  they  were,  hard  and  fast  on  the  shoal,  when 


248  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

we  came  up.  Nothing  to  nibble  on  but  knobs  of  anthracite. 
Nothing  to  sleep  on  softer  or  cleaner  than  coal-dust.  Noth 
ing  to  drink  but  the  brackish  water  under  their  keel. 
"  Rather  rough !  "  so  they  afterward  patiently  told  us. 

Meantime  the  "  Constitution  "  had  got  hold  of  a  tug,  and 
was  making  her  way  to  an  anchorage  where  her  guns  com 
manded  everything  and  everybody.  Good  and  true  men 
chuckled  greatly  over  this.  The  stars  and  stripes  also  were 
still  up  at  the  fort  at  the  Naval  Academy. 

Our  dread,  that,  while  we  were  off  at  sea,  some  great 
and  perhaps  fatal  harm  had  been  suffered,  was  greatly 
lightened  by  these  good  omens.  If  Annapolis  was  safe, 
why  not  Washington  safe  also?  If  treachery  had  got  head 
at  the  capital,  would  not  treachery  have  reached  out  its 
hand  and  snatched  this  doorway?  These  were  our  specula 
tions  as  we  began  to  discern  objects,  before  we  heard  news. 

But  news  came  presently.  Boats  pulled  off  to  us.  Our 
officers  were  put  into  communication  with  the  shore.  The 
scanty  facts  of  our  position  became  known  from  man  to 
man.  We  privates  have  greatly  the  advantage  in  battling, 
with  the  doubt  of  such  a  time.  We  know  that  we  have 
nothing  to  do  with  rumors.  Orders  are  what  we  go  by. 
And  orders  are  Facts. 

We  lay  a  long,  lingering  day,  off  Annapolis.  The  air  was 
full  of  doubt,  and  we  were  eager  to  be  let  loose.  All  this 
while  the  "  Maryland  "  stuck  fast  on  the  bar.  We  could  see 
them,  half  a  mile  off,  making  every  effort  to  lighten  her. 
The  soldiers  tramped  forward  and  aft,  danced  on  her  decks, 
shot  overboard  a  heavy  baggage-truck.  We  saw  them  start 
the  truck  for  the  stern  with  a  cheer.  It  crashed  down.  One 
end  stuck  in  the  mud.  The  other  fell  back  and  rested  on 
the  boat.  They  went  at  it  with  axes,  and  presently  it  was 
clear. 

As  the  tide  rose,  we  gave  our  grounded  friends  a  lift 


OUR  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON  249 

with  the  hawser.  No  go !  The  "  Boston  "  tugged  in  vain. 
We  got  near  enough  to  see  the  whites  of  the  Massachusetts 
eyes,  and  their  unlucky  faces  and  uniforms  all  grimy  with 
their  lodgings  in  the  coal-dust.  They  could  not  have  been 
blacker,  if  they  had  been  breathing  battle-smoke  and  dust 
[  all  day.  That  experience  was  clear  gain  to  them. 

By  and  by,  greatly  to  the  delight  of  the  impatient  Seventh, 
the  "  Boston  "  was  headed  for  shore.  Never  speak  ill  of  the 
beast  you  bestraddle !  Therefore  requiescat  "  Boston  "  !  may 
her  ribs  lie  light  on  soft  sand  when  she  goes  to  pieces !  may 
her  engines  be  cut  up  into  bracelets  for  the  arms  of  the 
patriotic  fair!  good  by  to  her,  dear  old,  close,  dirty,  slow 
coach !  She  served  her  country  well  in  a  moment  of  trial. 
Who  knows  but  she  saved  it?  It  was  a  race  to  see  who 
should  first  get  to  Washington, — and  we  and  the  Virginia 
mob,  in  alliance  with  the  District  mob,  were  perhaps  nip 
and  tuck  for  the  goal. 

ANNAPOLIS 

So  the  Seventh  Regiment  landed  and  took  Annapolis. 
We  were  the  first  troops  ashore. 

The  middies  of  the  Naval  Academy  no  doubt  believe  that 
they  had  their  quarters  secure.  The  Massachusetts  boys 
are  satisfied  that  they  first  took  the  town  in  charge.  And 
so  they  did. 

But  the  Seventh  took  it  a  little  more.  Not,  of  course, 
from  its  loyal  men,  but  for  its  loyal  men, — for  loyal  Mary 
land,  and  for  the  Union. 

Has  anybody  seen  Annapolis?  It  is  a  picturesque  old 
place,  sleepy  enough,  and  astonished  to  find  itself  wide- 
awaked  by  a  war,  and  obliged  to  take  responsibility  and 
share  for  good  and  ill  in  the  movement  of  its  time.  The 
buildings  of  the  Naval  Academy  stand  parallel  with  the 
river  Severn,  with  a  green  plateau  toward  the  water  and 


250  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

a  lovely  green  lawn  toward  the  town.  All  the  scene  was 
fresh  and  fair  with  April,  and  I  fancied,  as  the  "  Boston  " 
touched  the  wharf,  that  I  discerned  the  sweet  fragrance  of 
apple-blossoms  coming  with  the  spring-time  airs. 

I  hope  that  the  companies  of  the  Seventh,  should  the  day 
arrive,  will  charge  upon  horrid  batteries  or  serried  ranks 
with  as  much  alacrity  as  they  marched  ashore  on  the  green 
sward  of  the  Naval  Academy.  We  disembarked,  and  were 
halted  in  line  between  the  buildings  and  the  river. 

Presently,  while  we  stood  at  ease,  people  began  to  arrive, 
— some  with  smallish  fruit  to  sell,  some  with  smaller  news 
to  give.  Nobody  knew  whether  Washington  was  taken. 
Nobody  knew  whether  Jeff  Davis  was  now  spitting  in  the 
Presidential  spittoon,  and  scribbling  his  distiches  with  the 
nib  of  the  Presidential  goose-quill.  We  were  absolutely 
in  doubt  whether  a  seemingly  inoffensive  knot  of  rustics, 
on  a  mound  without  the  inclosures,  might  not,  at  tap  of 
drum,  unmask  a  battery  of  giant  columbiads,  and  belch 
blazes  at  us,  raking  our  line. 

Nothing  so  entertaining  happened.  It  was  a  parade, 
not  a  battle.  At  sunset  our  band  played  strains  sweet 
enough  to  pacify  all  Secession,  if  Secession  had  music  in  its 
soul.  Coffee,  hot  from  the  coppers  of  the  Naval  School, 
and  biscuit  were  served  out  to  us ;  and  while  we  supped,  we 
talked  with  our  visitors,  such  as  were  allowed  to  approach. 

First  the  boys  of  the  School — fine  little  blue- jackets — had 
their  story  to  tell. 

"  Do  you  see  that  white  farm-house,  across  the  river?" 
says  a  brave  pigmy  of  a  chap  in  navy  uniform.  "  That  is 
head-quarters  for  Secession.  They  were  going  to  take  the 
School  from  us,  Sir,  and  the  frigate;  but  we've  got  ahead 
of  'em,  now  you  and  the  Massachusetts  boys  have  come 
down," — and  he  twinkled  all  over  with  delight.  "  We  can't 
study  any  more.  We  are  on  guard  all  the  time.  We've  got 


OUR  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON  251 

howitzers,  too,  and  we'd  like  you  to  see,  to-morrow,  on 
drill,  how  we  can  handle  'em.  One  of  their  boats  came  by 
our  sentry  last  night,"  (a  sentry  probably  five  feet  high), 
"  and  he  blazed  away,  Sir.  So  they  thought  they  wouldn't 
try  us  that  time." 

It  was  plain  that  these  young  souls  had  been  well  tried 
by  the  treachery  about  them.  They,  too,  had  felt  the  pang 
of  the  disloyalty  of  comrades.  Nearly  a  hundred  of  the 
boys  had  been  spoilt  by  the  base  example  of  their  elders 
in  the  repudiating  States,  and  had  resigned. 

After  the  middies,  came  anxious  citizens  from  the  town. 
Scared,  all  of  them.  Now  that  we  were  come  and  assured 
them  that  persons  and  property  were  to  be  protected,  they 
ventured  to  speak  of  the  disgusting  tyranny  to  which  they, 
American  citizens,  had  been  subjected.  We  came  into  con 
tact  here  with  utter  social  anarchy.  No  man,  unless  he  was 
ready  to  risk  assault,  loss  of  property,  exile,  dared  to  act 
or  talk  like  a  freeman.  "  This  great  wrong  must  be  righted," 
think  the  Seventh  Regiment,  as  one  man.  So  we  tried  to 
reassure  the  Annapolitans  that  we  meant  to  do  our  duty 
as  the  nation's  armed  police,  and  mob-law  was  to  be  put 
down,  so  far  as  we  could  do  it. 

Here,  too,  voices  of  war  met  us.  The  country  was  stirred 
up.  If  the  rural  population  did  not  give  us  a  bastard  imi 
tation  of  Lexington  and  Concord,  as  we  tried  to  gain 
Washington,  all  Pluguglydom  would  treat  us  a  la  Plugugly 
somewhere  near  the  junction  of  the  Annapolis  and  Balti 
more  and  Washington  Railroad.  The  Seventh  must  be 
ready  to  shoot. 

At  dusk  we  were  marched  up  to  the  Academy  and  quar 
tered  about  in  the  buildings, — some  in  the  fort,  some  in  the 
recitation-halls.  We  lay  down  on  our  blankets  and  knap 
sacks.  Up  to  this  time  our  sleep  and  diet  had  been  severely 
scanty. 


252  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

We  stayed  all  next  day  at  Annapolis.  The  "  Boston  " 
brought  the  Massachusetts  Eighth  ashore  that  night.  Poor 
fellows !  what  a  figure  they  cut,  when  we  found  them 
bivouacked  on  the  Academy  grounds  next  morning!  To 
begin:  They  had  come  off  in  hot  patriotic  haste,  half-uni 
formed  and  half-outfitted.  Finding  that  Baltimore  had 
been  taken  by  its  own  loafers  and  traitors,  and  that  the 
Chesapeake  ferry  was  impracticable,  had  obliged  them  to 
change  line  of  march.  They  were  out  of  grub.  They  were 
parched  dry  for  want  of  water  on  the  ferry-boat.  Nobody 
could  decipher  Caucasian,  much  less  Bunker-Hill  Yankee, 
in  their  grimy  visages. 

But,  hungry,  thirsty,  grimy,  these  fellows  were  GRIT. 

Massachusetts  ought  to  be  proud  of  such  hardy,  cheerful, 
faithful  sons. 

We  of  the  Seventh  are  proud,  for  our  part,  that  it  was 
our  privilege  to  share  our  rations  with  them,  and  to  begin 
a  fraternization  which  grows  closer  every  day  and  will  be 
historical. 

But  I  must  make  a  shorter  story.  We  drilled  and  were 
reviewed  that  morning  on  the  Academy  parade.  In  the 
afternoon  the  Naval  School  paraded  their  last  before  they 
gave  up  their  barracks  to  the  coming  soldiery.  So  ended 
the  23d  of  April. 

Midnight,  24th.  We  were  rattled  up  by  an  alarm, — 
perhaps  a  sham  one,  to  keep  us  awake  and  lively.  In  a 
moment,  the  whole  regiment  was  in  order  of  battle  in  the 
moonlight  on  the  parade.  It  was  a  most  brilliant  spectacle, 
as  company  after  company  rushed  forward,  with  rifles  glit 
tering,  to  take  their  places  in  the  array. 

After  this  pretty  spirt,  we  were  rationed  with  pork,  beef, 
and  bread  for  three  days,  and  ordered  to  be  ready  to  march 
on  the  instant. 


OUR  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON  253 

WHAT  THE  MASSACHUSETTS  EIGHTH  HAD  BEEN  DOING 

MEANTIME  General  Butler's  command,  the  Massachusetts 
Eighth,  had  been  busy  knocking  disorder  in  the  head. 

Presently  after  their  landing,  and  before  they  were  re 
freshed,  they  pushed  companies  out  to  occupy  the  railroad- 
track  beyond  the  town. 

They  found  it  torn  up.  No.  doubt  the  scamps  who  did 
the  shabby  job  fancied  that  there  would  be  no  more  travel 
that  way  until  strawberry-time.  They  fancied  the  Yankees 
would  sit  down  on  the  fences  and  begin  to  whittle  white- 
oak  toothpicks,  darning  the  rebels,  through  their  noses, 
meanwhile. 

I  know  these  men  of  the  Eighth  can  whittle,  and  I  pre 
sume  they  can  say  "  Darn  it,"  if  occasion  requires;  but  just 
now  track-laying  was  the  business  on  hand. 

"  Wanted,  experienced  track-layers  !  "  was  the  word  along 
the  files. 

All  at  once  the  line  of  the  road  became  densely  popu 
lated  with  experienced  track-layers,  fresh  from  Massa 
chusetts. 

Presto  change!  the  rails  were  relaid,  spiked,  and  the 
roadway  leveled  and  better  ballasted  than  any  road  I  ever 
saw  south  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line. 

"  We  must  leave  a  good  job  for  these  folks  to  model 
after,"  say  the  Massachusetts  Eighth. 

A  track  without  a  train  is  as  useless  as  a  gun  without 
a  man.  Train  and  engine  must  be  had.  "  Uncle  Sam's 
mails  and  troops  cannot  be  stopped  another  minute,"  our 
energetic  friends  conclude.  So, — the  railroad  company's 
people  being  either  frightened  or  false, — in  marches  Massa 
chusetts  to  the  station.  "  We,  the  People  of  the  United 
States,  want  rolling-stock  for  the  use  of  the  Union,"  they 
said,  or  words  to  that  effect. 


254  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

The  engine — a  frowsy  machine  at  the  best — had  been 
purposely  disabled. 

Here  appeared  the  deus  ex  machina,  Charles  Homans, 
Beverly  Light  Guard,  Company  E,  Eighth  Massachusetts 
Regiment. 

That  is  the  man,  name  and  .titles  in  full,  and  he  deserves 
well  of  his  country. 

He  took  a  quiet  squint  at  the  engine, — it  was  as  helpless 
as  a  boned  turkey, — and  he  found  "  Charles  Homans,  his 
mark,"  written  all  over  it. 

The  old  rattletrap  was  an  old  friend.  Charles  Homans 
had  had  a  share  in  building  it.  The  machine  and  the  man 
said,  "  How  d'y'  do?"  at  once.  Homans  called  for  a  gang 
of  engine-builders.  Of  course  they  swarmed  out  of  the 
ranks.  They  passed  their  hands  over  the  locomotive  a  few 
times,  and  presently  it  was  ready  to  whistle  and  wheeze  and 
rumble  and  gallop,  as  if  no  traitor  had  ever  tried  to  steal 
the  go  and  the  music  out  of  it. 

This  had  all  been  done  during  the  afternoon  of  the  23d. 
During  the  night,  the  renovated  engine  was  kept  cruising 
up  and  down  the  track  to  see  all  clear.  Guards  of  the 
Eighth  were  also  posted  to  protect  passage. 

Our  commander  had,  I  presume,  been  co-operating  with 
General  Butler  in  this  business.  The  Naval  Academy 
authorities  had  given  us  every  despatch  and  assistance,  and 
the  middies,  frank,  personal  hospitality.  The  day  was 
halcyon,  the  grass  was  green  and  soft,  the  apple-trees  were 
just  in  blossom:  it  was  a  day  to  be  remembered. 

Many  of  us  will  remember  it,  and  show  the  marks  of  it 
for  months,  as  the  day  we  had  our  heads  cropped.  By  even 
ing  there  was  hardly  one  poll  in  the  Seventh  tenable  by 
anybody's  grip.  Most  sat  in  the  shade  and  were  shorn  by 
a  barber.  A  few  were  honored  with  a  clip  by  the  artist 
hand  of  the  petit  caporal  of  our  Engineer  Company. 


OUR  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON  255 

While  I  rattle  off  these  trifling  details,  let  me  not  fail  to 
call  attention  to  the  grave  service  done  by  our  regiment,  by 
its  arrival,  at  the  nick  of  time,  at  Annapolis.  No  clearer 
special  Providence  could  have  happened.  The  country- 
people  of  the  traitor  sort  were  aroused.  Baltimore  and  its 
mob  were  but  two  hours  away.  The  "  Constitution  "  had 
been  hauled  out  of  reach  of  a  rush  by  the  Massachusetts 
men, — first  on  the  ground, — but  was  half  manned  and  not 
fully  secure.  And  there  lay  the  "  Maryland,"  helpless  on 
the  shoal,  with  six  or  seven  hundred  souls  on  board,  so 
near  the  shore  that  the  late  Captain  Rynders's  gun  could 
have  sunk  her  from  some  ambush. 

Yes !  the  Seventh  Regiment  at  Annapolis  was  the  Right 
Man  in  the  Right  Place! 

OUR    MORNING   MARCH 

REVEILLE.  As  nobody  pronounces  this  word  a  la 
frangaise,  as  everybody  calls  it  "  Revelee,"  why  not  drop 
it,  as  an  affectation,  and  translate  it  the  "  Stir  your  Stumps," 
the  "  Peel  your  Eyes,"  the  "  Tumble  Up,"  or  literally  the 
"Wake"? 

Our  snorers  had  kept  up  this  call  so  lustily  since  mid 
night,  that,  when  the  drums  sounded  it,  we  were  all  ready. 

The  Sixth  and  Second  Companies,  under  Captain  Nevers, 
are  detached  to  lead  the  van.  I  see  my  brother  Billy  march 
off  with  the  Sixth,  into  the  dusk,  half  moonlight,  half  dawn, 
and  hope  that  no  beggar  of  a  Secessionist  will  get  a  pat 
shot  at  him,  by  the  roadside,  without  his  getting  a  chance 
to  let  fly  in  return.  Such  little  possibilities  intensify  the 
earnest  detestation  we  feel  for  the  treasons  we  come  to  resist 
and  to  punish.  There  will  be  some  bitter  work  done, 
if  we  ever  get  to  blows  in  this  war, — this  needless,  reckless, 
brutal  assault  upon  the  mildest  of  all  governments. 


256  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

Before  the  main  body  of  the  regiment  marches,  we  learn 
that  the  "  Baltic  "  and  other  transports  came  in  last  night 
with  troops  from  New  York  and  New  England,  enough 
to  hold  Annapolis  against  a  square  league  of  Plug  Uglies. 
We  do  not  go  on  without  having  our  rear  protected  and 
our  communications  open.  It  is  strange  to  be  compelled 
to  think  of  these  things  in  peaceful  America.  But  we  really 
knew  little  more  of  the  country  before  us  than  Cortes  knew 
of  Mexico.  I  have  since  learned  from  a  high  official,  that 
thirteen  different  messengers  were  dispatched  from  Wash 
ington  in  the  interval  of  anxiety  while  the  Seventh  was  not 
forthcoming,  and  only  one  got  through. 

At  half-past  seven  we  take  up  our  line  of  march,  pass 
out  of  the  charming  grounds  of  the  Academy,  and  move 
through  the  quiet,  rusty,  picturesque  old  town.  It  has  a 
romantic  dullness, — Annapolis, — which  deserves  a  parting 
compliment. 

Although  we  deem  ourselves  a  fine-looking  set,  although 
our  belts  are  blanched  with  pipe-clay  and  our  rifles  shine 
sharp  in  the  sun,  yet  the  townspeople  stare  at  us  in  a  dismal 
silence.  They  have  already  the  air  of  men  quelled  by  a 
despotism.  None  can  trust  his  neighbor.  If  he  dares  to  be 
loyal,  he  must  take  his  life  into  his  hands.  Most  would 
be  loyal,  if  they  dared.  But  the  system  of  society  which 
has  ended  in  this  present  chaos  had  gradually  eliminated 
the  bravest  and  best  men.  They  have  gone  in  search  of 
Freedom  and  Prosperity ;  and  now  the  bullies  cow  the 
weaker  brothers.  "  There  must  be  an  end  of  this  mean 
tyranny,"  think  the  Seventh,  as  they  march  through  old 
Annapolis  and  see  how  sick  the  town  is  with  doubt  and 
alarm. 

Outside  the  town,  we  strike  the  railroad  and  move  along, 
the  howitzers  in  front,  bouncing  over  the  sleepers.  When 
our  line  is  fully  disengaged  from  the  town,  we  halt. 


OUR  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON  257 

Here  the  scene  is  beautiful.  The  van  rests  upon  a  high 
embankment,  with  a  pool  surrounded  by  pine-trees  on  the 
right,  green  fields  on  the  left.  Cattle  are  feeding  quietly 
about.  The  air  sings  with  birds.  The  chestnut-leaves 
sparkle.  Frogs  whistle  in  the  warm  spring  morning.  The 
regiment  groups  itself  along  the  bank  and  the  cutting. 
Several  Marylanders  of  the  half-price  age — under  twelve — 
come  gaping  up  to  see  us  harmless  invaders.  Each  of  these 
young  gentry  is  armed  with  a  dead  spring  frog,  perhaps 
by  way  of  tribute.  And  here — hollo!  here  comes  Horace 
Greeley  in  propria  persona!  He  marches  through  our 
groups  with  the  Greeley  walk,  the  Greeley  hat  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  the  Greeley  white  coat  on  his  shoulders,  his 
trousers  much  too  short,  and  an  absorbed,  abstracted  de 
meanor.  Can  it  be  Horace,  reporting  for  himself?  No; 
this  is  a  Maryland  production,  and  a  little  disposed  to  be 
sulky. 

After  a  few  minutes'  halt,  we  hear  the  whistle  of  the 
engine.  This  machine  is  also  an  historic  character  in  the 
war. 

Remember  it !  "  J.  H.  Nicholson  "  is  its  name.  Charles 
Holmes  drives,  and  on  either  side  stands  a  sentry  with  fixed 
bayonet.  New  spectacles  for  America!  But  it  is  grand  to 
know  that  the  bayonets  are  to  protect,  not  to  assail,  Liberty 
and  Law. 

The  train  leads  off.  We  follow,  by  the  track.  Presently 
the  train  returns.  We  pass  it  and  trudge  on  in  !ight  march 
ing  order,  carrying  arms,  blankets,  haversacks,  and  can 
teens.  Our  knapsacks  are  upon  the  train. 

Fortunate  for  our  backs  that  they  do  not  have  to  bear 
any  more  burden !  For  the  day  grows  sultry.  It  is  one  of 
those  breezeless  baking  days  which  brew  thunder-gusts. 
We  march  for  some  four  miles,  when,  coming  upon  the 
guards  of  the  Massachusetts  Eighth,  our  howitzer  is  ordered 


258  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

to  fall  out  and  wait  for  the  train.    With  a  comrade  of  the 
Artillery,  I  am  placed  on  guard  over  it. 

ON  GUARD  WITH   HOWITZER  NO.  TWO 

HENRY  BONNELL  is  my  fellow-sentry.  He,  like  myself,  is 
an  old  campaigner  in  such  campaigns  as  our  generation  has 
known.  So  we  talk  California,  Oregon,  Indian  life,  the 
Plains,  keeping  our  eyes  peeled  meanwhile,  and  ranging 
the  country.  Men  that  will  tear  up  track  are  quite  capable 
of  picking  off  a  sentry.  A  giant  chestnut  gives  us  little 
dots  of  shade  from  its  pigmy  leaves.  The  country  about 
us  is  open  and  newly  plowed.  Some  of  the  worm-fences 
are  new,  and  ten  rails  high;  but  the  farming  is  careless, 
and  the  soil  thin. 

Two  of  the  Massachusetts  men  come  back  to  the  gun 
while  we  are  standing  there.  One  is  my  friend  Stephen 
Morris,  of  Marblehead,  Sutton  Light  Infantry.  I  had 
shared  my  breakfast  yesterday  with  Stephe.  So  we  re- 
fraternize. 

His  business  is, — "  I  make  shoes  in  winter  and  fishin' 
in  summer."  He  gives  me  a  few  facts, — suspicious  persons 
seen  about  the  track,  men  on  horseback  in  the  distance. 
One  of  the  Massachusetts  guard  last  night  challenged  his 
captain.  Captain  replied,  "  Officer  of  the  night."  Where 
upon,  says  Stephe,  "the  recruit  let  squizzle  and  jest  missed 
his  ear."  He  then  related  to  me  the  incident  of  the  railroad 
station.  "  The  first  thing  they  know'd,"  says  he,  "  we  bit 
right  into  the  depot  and  took  charge."  "  I  don't  mind," 
Stephe  remarked, — "  I  don't  mind  life,  nor  yit  death ;  but 
whenever  I  see  a  Massachusetts  boy,  I  stick  by  him,  and  if 
them  Secessionists  attackt  us  to-night,  or  any  other  time, 
they'll  get  in  debt." 

Whistle,  again!  and  the  train  appears.    We  are  ordered 


OUR  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON  259 

to  ship  our  howitzer  on  a  platform  car.  The  engine  pushes 
us  on.  This  train  brings  our  light  baggage  and  the  rear 
guard. 

A  hundred  yards  farther  on  is  a  delicious  fresh  spring 
below  the  bank.  While  the  train  halts,  Stephe  Morris 
rushes  down  to  fill  my  canteen.  "  This  a'n't  like  Marble- 
head/'  says  Stephe,  panting  up ;  "  but  a  man  that  can  shin  up 
them  rocks  can  git  right  over  this  sand." 

The  train  goes  slowly  on,  as  a  rickety  train  should.  At 
intervals  we  see  the  fresh  spots  of  track  just  laid  by  our 
Yankee  friends.  Near  the  sixth  mile,  we  began  to  overtake 
hot  and  uncomfortable  squads  of  our  fellows.  The  un 
seasonable  heat  of  this  most  breathless  day  was  too  much 
for  many  of  the  younger  men,  unaccustomed  to  rough  work, 
and  weakened  by  want  of  sleep  and  irregular  food  in  our 
hurried  movements  thus  far. 

Charles  Homans's  private  carriage  was,  however,  ready 
to  pick  up  tired  men,  hot  men,  thirsty  men,  men  with  corns, 
or  men  with  blisters.  They  tumbled  into  the  train  in  con 
siderable  numbers. 

An  enemy  that  dared  could  have  made  a  moderate  bag 
of  stragglers  at  this  time.  But  they  would  not  have  been 
allowed  to  straggle,  if  any  enemy  had  been  about.  By  this 
time  we  were  convinced  that  no  attack  was  to  be  expected 
in  this  part  of  the  way. 

The  main  body  of  the  regiment,  under  Major  Shaler,  a 
tall,  soldierly  fellow,  with  a  mustache  of  the  fighting  color, 
tramped  on  their  own  pins  to  the  watering-place,  eight 
miles  or  so  from  Annapolis.  There  troops  and  train  came 
to  a  halt,  with  the  news  that  a  bridge  over  a  country  road 
was  broken  a  mile  farther  on.  , 

It  had  been  distinctly  insisted  upon,  in  the  usual  South 
ern  style,  that  we  were  not  to  be  allowed  to  pass  through 
Maryland,  and  that  we  were  to  be  "  welcomed  to  hospitable 


260  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

graves."    The  broken  bridge  was  a  capital  spot  for  a  skir 
mish.     Why  not  look  for  it  here? 

We  looked;  but  got  nothing.  The  rascals  could  skulk 
about  by  night,  tear  up  rails,  and  hide  them  where  they 
might  be  found  by  a  man  with  half  an  eye,  or  half  destroy 
a  bridge;  but  there  was  no  shoot  in  them.  They  have  not 
faith  enough  in  their  cause  to  risk  their  lives  for  it,  even 
behind  a  tree  or  from  one  of  these  thickets,  choice  spots 
for  ambush. 

So  we  had  no  battle  there,  but  a  battle  of  the  elements. 
The  volcanic  heat  of  the  morning  was  followed  by  a  furious 
storm  of  wind  and  a  smart  shower.  The  regiment  wrapped 
themselves  in  their  blankets  and  took  their  wetting  with 
more  or  less  satisfaction.  They  were  receiving  samples  of 
all  the  different  little  miseries  of  a  campaign. 

And  here  let  me  say  a  word  to  my  fellow-volunteers, 
actual  and  prospective,  in  all  the  armies  of  all  the  States : — • 

A  soldier  needs,  besides  his  soldierly  drill, 
I.    Good  Feet. 
II.    A  good  Stomach. 

III.  And  after  these,  come  the  good  Head  and  the  good 
Heart. 

But  Good  Feet  are  distinctly  the  first  thing.  Without 
them  you  cannot  get  to  your  duty.  If  a  comrade,  or  a 
horse,  or  a  locomotive,  takes  you  on  its  back  to  the  field, 
you  are  useless  there.  And  when  the  field  is  lost,  you  can 
not  retire,  run  away,  and  save  your  bacon. 

Good  shoes  and  plenty  of  walking  make  good  feet.  A  man 
who  pretends  to  belong  to  an  infantry  company  ought  al 
ways  to  keep  himself  in  training,  so  that  any  moment  he  can 
march  twenty  or  thirty  miles  without  feeling  a  pang  or 
raising  a  blister.  Was  this  the  case  with  even  a  decimation 
of  the  army  who  rushed  to  defend  Washington  ?  Were  yow 
so  trained,  my  comrades  of  the  Seventh  ? 


OUR  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON  261 

A  captain  of  a  company,  who  will  let  his  men  march  with 
such  shoes  as  I  have  seen  on  the  feet' of  some  poor  fellows 
in  this  war,  ought  to  be  garroted  with  shoe-strings,  or  at 
least  compelled  to  play  Pope  and  wash  the  feet  of  the  whole 
army  of  the  Apostles  of  Liberty. 

If  you  find  a  foot-soldier  lying  beat  out  by  the  roadside, 
desperate  as  a  sea-sick  man,  five  to  one  his  heels  are  too 
high,  or  his  soles  too  narrow  or  too  thin,  or  his  shoe  is  not 
made  straight  on  the  inside,  so  the  great  toe  can  spread  into 
its  plage  as  he  treads. 

I  am  an  old  walker  over  Alps  across  the  water,  and  over 
Cordilleras,  Sierras,  Deserts  and  Prairies  at  home ;  I  have 
done  my  near  sixty  miles  a  day  without  discomfort, — and 
speaking  from  large  experience,  and  with  painful  recollec 
tions  of  the  suffering  and  death  I  have  known  for  want  of 
good  feet  on  the  march,  I  say  to  every  volunteer : — 

Trust  in  God;  BUT  KEEP  YOUR  SHOES  EASY! 

THE    BRIDGE 

When  the  frenzy  of  the  brief  tempest  was  over,  it  began 
to  be  a  question,  "  What  to  do  about  the  broken  bridge  ?  " 
The  gap  was  narrow;  but  even  Charles  Homans  could  not 
promise  to  leap  the  "  J.  H.  Nicholson  "  over  it.  Who  was 
to  be  our  Julius  Caesar  in  bridge-building?  Who  but  Ser 
geant  Scott,  Armorer  of  the  Regiment,  with  my  fellow- 
sentry  of  the  morning,  Bonnell,  as  First  Assistant? 

Scott  called  for  a  working  party.  There  were  plenty  of 
handy  fellows  among  our  Engineers  and  in  the  Line.  Tools 
were  plenty  in  the  Engineers'  chest.  We  pushed  the  plat 
form  car  upon  which  howitzer  No.  i  was  mounted  down  to 
the  gap,  and  began  operations. 

"  I  wish,"  says  the  petit  caporal  of  the  Engineer  Company, 
patting  his  howitzer  gently  on  the  back,  "  that  I  could  get 


262  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

this  Putty  Blower  pointed  at  the  enemy,  while  you  fellows 
are  bridge-building." 

The  inefficient  destructives  of  Maryland  had  only  half 
spoilt  the  bridge.  Some  of  the  old  timbers  could  be  used, — 
and  for  new  ones,  there  was  the  forest. 

Scott  and  his  party  made  a  good  and  a  quick  job  of  it. 
Our  friends  of  the  Massachusetts  Eighth  had  now  come  up. 
They  lent  a  ready  hand,  as  usual.  The  sun  set  brilliantly. 
By  twilight  there  was  a  practicable  bridge.  The  engine  was 
dispatched  back  to  keep  the  road  open.  The  two  platform 
cars,  freighted  with  our  howitzers,  were  rigged  with  the 
gun-ropes  for  dragging  along  the  rail.  We  passed  through 
the  files  of  the  Massachusetts  men,  resting  by  the  way,  and 
eating  by  the  fires  of  the  evening  the  suppers  we  had  in 
great  part  provided  them ;  and  so  begins  our  night-march. 


THE  NIGHT-MARCH 

O  GOTTSCHALK!  what  a  poetic  Marche  de  Nuit  we  then 
began  to  play,  with  our  heels  and  toes,  on  the  railroad 
track ! 

It  was  full-moonlight  and  the  night  inexpressibly  sweet 
and  serene.  The  air  was  cool  and  vivified  by  the  gust  and 
shower  of  the  afternoon.  Fresh  spring  was  in  every 
breath.  Our  fellows  had  forgotten  that  this  morning  they 
were  hot  and  disgusted.  Everyone  hugged  his  rifle  as  if 
it  were  the  arm  of  the  Girl  of  his  Heart,  and  stepped  out 
gayly  for  the  promenade.  Tired  or  foot-sore  men,  or  even 
lazy  ones,  could  mount  upon  the  two  freight-cars  we  were 
using  for  artillery-wagons.  There  were  stout  arms  enough 
to  tow  the  whole. 

The  scouts  went  ahead  under  First  Lieutenant  Farnham 
of  the  Second  Company.  We  were  at  school  together, — I 
am  afraid  to  say  how  many  years  ago.  He  is  just  the  same 


OUR  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON  263 

cool,  dry,  shrewd  fellow  he  was  as  a  boy,  and  a  most  effi 
cient  officer. 

It  was  an  original  kind  of  march.  I  suppose  a  battery  of 
howitzers  never  before  found  itself  mounted  upon  cars, 
ready  to  open  fire  at  once  and  bang  away  into  the  offing  with 
shrapnel  or  into  the  bushes  with  canister.  Our  line  ex 
tended  a  half-mile  along  the  track.  It  was  beautiful  to  stand 
on  the  bank  above  a  cutting,  and  watch  the  files  strike  from 
the  shadow  of  a  wood  into  a  broad  flame  of  moonlight,  every 
rifle  sparkling  up  alert  as  it  came  forward.  A  beautiful 
sight  to  see  the  barrels  writing  themselves  upon  the  dimness, 
each  a  silver  flash. 

By  and  by,  "  Halt !  "  came,  repeated  along  from  the  front, 
company  after  company.  "  Halt !  a  rail  gone." 

It  was  found  without  difficulty.  The  imbeciles  who  took 
it  up  probably  supposed  we  would  not  wish  to  wet  our 
feet  by  searching  for  it  in  the  dewy  grass  of  the  next  field. 
With  incredible  doltishness  they  had  also  left  the  chairs  and 
spikes  beside  the  track.  Bonnell  took  hold,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  had  the  rail  in  place  and  firm  enough  to  pass  the 
engine.  Remember,  we  were  not  only  hurrying  on  to  suc 
cor  Washington,  but  opening  the  only  convenient  and  prac 
ticable  route  between  it  and  the  loyal  States. 

A  little  farther  on,  we  came  to  a  village, — a  rare  sight 
in  this  scantily  peopled  region.  Here  Sergeant  Keeler,  of 
our  company,  the  tallest  man  in  the  regiment,  and  one  of 
the  handiest,  suggested  that  we  should  tear  up  the  rails  at 
a  turn-out  by  the  station,  and  so  be  prepared  for  chances. 
So  "  Out  crowbars !  "  was  the  word.  We  tore  up  and 
bagged  half  a  dozen  rails,  with  chairs  and  spikes  complete. 
Here  too,  some  of  the  engineers  found  a  keg  of  spikes. 
This  was  also  bagged  and  loaded  on  our  cars.  We  fought 
the  chaps  with  their  own  weapons,  since  they  would  not  meet 
us  with  ours. 


264  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

These  things  made  delay,  and  by  and  by  there  was  a  long 
halt,  while  the  Colonel  communicated,  by  orders  sounded 
along  the  line,  with  the  engine.  Homans's  drag  was  hard 
after  us,  bringing  our  knapsacks  and  traps. 

After  I  had  admired  for  some  time  the  beauty  of  our 
moonlit  line,  and  listened  to  the  orders  as  they  grew  or  died 
along  the  distance,  I  began  to  want  excitement.  Bonnell 
suggested  that  he  and  I  should  scout  up  the  road  and  see 
if  any  rails  were  wanting.  We  traveled  along  into  the  quiet 
night. 

A  mile  ahead  of  the  line  we  suddenly  caught  the  gleam 
of  a  rifle-barrel.  "  Who  goes  there  ? "  one  of  our  own 
scouts  challenged  smartly. 

We  had  arrived  at  the  nick  of  time.  Three  rails  were 
up.  Two  of  them  were  easily  found.  The  third  was  dis 
covered  by  beating  the  bush  thoroughly.  Bonnell  and  I  ran 
back  for  tools,  and  returned  at  full  trot  with  crowbar  and 
sledge  on  our  shoulders.  There  were  plenty  of  willing 
hands  to  help, — too  many,  indeed, — and  with  the  aid  of  a 
huge  Massachusetts  man  we  soon  had  the  rail  in  place. 

From  this  time  on  we  were  constantly  interrupted.  Not 
a  half-mile  passed  without  a  rail  up.  Bonnell  was  always 
at  the  front  laying  track,  and  I  am  proud  to  say  that  he 
accepted  me  as  aide-de-camp.  Other  fellows,  unknown  to 
me  in  the  dark,  gave  hearty  help.  The  Seventh  showed 
that  it  could  do  something  else  than  drill. 

At  one  spot,  on  a  high  embankment  over  standing  water, 
the  rail  was  gone,  sunk  probably.  Here  we  tried  our  rails 
brought  from  the  turn-out.  They  were  too  short.  We 
supplemented  with  a  length  of  plank  from  our  stores.  We 
rolled  our  cars  carefully  over.  They  passed  safe.  But 
Homans  shook  his  head.  He  could  not  venture  a  locomo 
tive  on  that  frail  stuff.  So  we  lost  the  society  of  the  "  J.  H. 
Nicholson."  Next  day  the  Massachusetts  commander  called 


OUR  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON  265 

for  someone  to  dive  in  the  pool  for  the  lost  rail.  Plump 
into  the  water  went  a  little  wiry  chap  and  grappled  the  rail. 
"  When  I  come  up,"  says  the  brave  fellow  afterwards  to 
me,  "  our  officer  out  with  a  twenty-dollar  gold-piece  and 
wanted  me  to  take  it.  '  That  a'n't  what  I  come  for/  says 
I.  *  Take  it,'  says  he,  '  and  share  with  the  others.'  '  That 
a'n't  what  they  come  for,'  says  I.  But  I  took  a  big  cold," 
the  diver  continued,  "  and  I'm  condemned  hoarse  yit," — 
which  was  the  fact. 

Farther  on  we  found  a  whole  length  of  track  torn  up, 
on  both  sides,  sleepers  and  all,  and  the  same  thing  repeated 
with  alternations  of  breaks  of  single  rails.  Our  howitzer- 
ropes  came  into  play  to  hoist  and  haul.  We  were  not  going 
to  be  stopped. 

But  it  was  becoming  a  Noche  Triste  to  some  of  our  com 
rades.  We  had  now  marched  some  sixteen  miles.  The  dis 
tance  was  trifling.  But  the  men  had  been  on  their  legs  pretty 
much  all  day  and  night.  Hardly  anyone  had  had  any  full 
or  substantial  sleep  or  meal  since  we  started  from  New 
York.  They  napped  off,  standing,  leaning  on  their  guns, 
dropping  down  in  their  tracks  on  the  wet  ground,  at  every 
halt.  They  were  sleepy,  but  plucky.  As  we  passed  through 
deep  cuttings,  places,  as  it  were,  built  for  defense,  there 
was  a  general  desire  that  the  tedium  of  the  night  should 
be  relieved  by  a  shindy. 

During  the  whole  night  I  saw  our  officers  moving  about 
the  line,  doing  their  duty  vigorously,  despite  exhaustion, 
hunger  and  sleeplessness. 

About  midnight  our  friends  of  the  Eighth  had  joined  us, 
and  our  whole  little  army  struggled  on  together.  I  find 
that  I  have  been  rather  understating  the  troubles  of  the 
march.  It  secerns  impossible  that  such  difficulty  could  be 
encountered  within  twenty  miles  of  the  capital  of  our  na 
tion.  But  we  were  making  a  rush  to  put  ourselves  in  that 


266  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

capital,  and  we  could  not  proceed  in  the  slow,  systematic 
way  of  an  advancing  army.  We  must  take  the  risk  and 
stand  the  suffering,  whatever  it  was.  So  the  Seventh  Regi 
ment  went  through  its  bloodless  Noche  Triste. 


MORNING 

At  last  we  issued  from  the  damp  woods,  two  miles  below 
the  railroad  junction.  Here  was  an  extensive  farm.  Our 
vanguard  had  halted  and  borrowed  a  few  rails  to  make 
fires.  These  were,  of  course,  carefully  paid  for  at  their 
proprietor's  own  price.  The  fires  were  bright  in  the  gray 
dawn.  About  them  the  whole  regiment  was  now  halted. 
The  men  tumbled  down  to  catch  forty  winks.  Some,  who 
were  hungrier  for  food  than  sleep,  went  off  foraging  among 
the  farm-houses.  They  returned  with  appetizing  legends 
of  hot  breakfast  in  hospitable  abodes,  or  scanty  fare  given 
grudgingly  in  hostile  ones.  All  meals,  however,  were 
paid  for. 

Here,  as  at  other  halts  below,  the  country-people  came 
up  to  talk  to  us.  The  traitors  could  easily  be  distinguished 
by  their  insolence  disguised  as  obsequiousness.  The  loyal 
men  were  still  timid,  but  more  hopeful  at  last.  All  were  very 
lavish  with  the  monosyllable,  Sir.  It  was  an  odd  coinci 
dence,  that  the  vanguard,  halting  off  at  a  farm  in  the 
morning,  found  it  deserted  for  the  moment  by  its  tenants, 
and  protected  only  by  an  engraved  portrait  of  our  (former) 
Colonel  Duryea,  serenely  smiling  over  the  mantel-piece. 

From  this  point,  the  railroad  was  pretty  much  all  gone. 
But  we  were  warmed  and  refreshed  by  a  nap  and  a  bite, 
and  besides  had  daylight  and  open  country. 

We  put  our  guns  on  their  own  wheels,  all  dropped  into 
ranks  as  if  on  parade,  and  marched  the  last  two  miles  to 
the  station.  We  still  had  no  certain  information.  Until  we 


OUR  MARCH  TO  WASHINGTON  267 

actually  saw  the  train  awaiting  us,  and  the  Washington 
companies,  who  had  come  down  to  escort  us,  drawn  up, 
we  did  not  know  whether  our  Uncle  Sam  was  still  a  resi 
dent  of  the  capital. 

We  packed  into  the  train,  and  rolled  away  to  Wash 
ington. 

WASHINGTON 

We  marched  up  to  the  White  House,  showed  ourselves 
to  the  President,  made  our  bow  to  him  as  our  host,  and 
then  marched  up  to  the  Capitol,  our  grand  lodgings. 

There  we  are  now,  quartered  in  the  Representatives' 
Chamber. 

And  here  I  must  hastily  end  this  first  sketch  of  the  Great 
Defense.  May  it  continue  to  be  as  firm  and  faithful  as  it 
is  this  day ! 

I  have  scribbled  my  story  with  a  thousand  men  stirring 
about  me.  If  any  of  my  sentences  miss  their  aim,  accuse 
my  comrades  and  the  bewilderment  of  this  martial  crowd. 
For  here  are  four  or  five  thousand  others  on  the  same 
business  as  ourselves,  and  drums  are  beating,  guns  are 
clanking,  companies  are  tramping,  all  the  while.  Our 
friends  of  the  Eighth  Massachusetts  are  quartered  under 
the  dome,  and  cheer  us  whenever  we  pass. 

Desks  marked  John  Covode,  John  Cochran,  and  Anson 
Burlingame  have  allowed  me  to  use  them  as  I  wrote. 


CALVIN 

A  STUDY  OF  CHARACTER 

CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 

CALVIN  is  dead.  His  life,  long  to  him,  but  short  for  the 
rest  of  us,  was  not  marked  by  startling  adventures,  but  his 
character  was  so  uncommon  and  his  qualities  were  so 
worthy  of  imitation,  that  I  have  been  asked  by  those  who 
personally  knew  him  to  set  down  my  recollections  of  his 
career. 

His  origin  and  ancestry  were  shrouded  in  mystery ;  even 
his  age  was  a  matter  of  pure  conjecture.  Although  he  was 
of  the  Maltese  race,  I  have  reason  to  suppose  that  he  was 
American  by  birth  as  he  certainly  was  in  sympathy.  Calvin 
was  given  to  me  eight  years  ago  by  Mrs.  Stowe,  but  she 
knew  nothing  of  his  age  or  origin.  He  walked  into  her 
house  one  day  out  of  the  great  unknown  and  became  at 
once  at  home,  as  if  he  had  been  always  a  friend  of  the 
family.  *He  appeared  to  have  artistic  and  literary  tastes,  and 
it  was  as  if  he  had  inquired  at  the  door  if  that  was  the 
residence  of  the  author  of  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  and,  upon 
being  assured  that  it  was,  had  decided  to  dwell  there.  This 
is,  of  course,  fanciful,  for  his  antecedents  were  wholly 
unknown,  but  in  his  time  he  could  hardly  have  been  in 
any  household  where  he  would  not  have  heard  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin  talked  about.  When  he  came  to  Mrs.  Stowe,  he  was 
as  large  as  he  ever  was,  and  apparently  as  old  as  he  ever 
became.  Yet  there  was  in  him  no  appearance  of  age;  he 
was  in  the  happy  maturity  of  all  his  powers,  and  you 

268 


CALVIN  269 

would  rather  have  said  that  in  that  maturity  he  had  found 
the  secret  of  perpetual  youth.  And  it  was  as  difficult  to 
believe  that  he  would  ever  be  aged  as  it  was  to  imagine 
that  he  had  ever  been  in  immature  youth.  There  was  in 
him  a  mysterious  perpetuity. 

After  some  years,  when  Mrs.  Stowe  made  her  winter 
home  in  Florida,  Calvin  came  to  live  with  us.  From  the 
first  moment,  he  fell  into  the  ways  of  the  house  and  assumed 
a  recognized  position  in  the  family, — I  say  recognized,  be 
cause  after  he  became  known  he  was  always  inquired  for 
by  visitors,  and  in  the  letters  to  the  other  members  of  the 
family  he  always  received  a  message.  Although  the  least 
obtrusive  of  beings,  his  individuality  always  made  itself 
felt. 

His  personal  appearance  had  much  to  do  with  this,  for 
he  was  of  royal  mould,  and  had  an  air  of  high  breeding. 
He  was  large,  but  he  had  nothing  of  the  fat  grossness  of 
the  celebrated  Angora  family ;  though  powerful,  he  was  ex 
quisitely  proportioned,  and  as  graceful  in  every  movement 
as  a  young  leopard.  When  he  stood  up  to  open  a  door — 
he  opened  all  the  doors  with  old-fashioned  latches — he  was 
portentously  tall,  and  when  stretched  on  the  rug  before 
the  fire  he  seemed  too  long  for  this  world — as  indeed  he 
was.  His  coat  was  the  finest  and  softest  I  have  ever  seen, 
a  shade  of  quiet  Maltese;  and  from  his  throat  downward, 
underneath,  to  the  white  tips  of  his  feet,  he  wore  the  whitest 
and  most  delicate  ermine ;  and  no  person  was  ever  more 
fastidiously  neat.  In  his  finely  formed  head  you  saw  some 
thing  of  his  aristocratic  character;  the  ears  were  small 
and  cleanly  cut,  there  was  a  tinge  of  pink  in  the  nostrils,  his 
face  was  handsome,  and  the  expression  of  his  countenance 
exceedingly  intelligent — I  should  call  it  even  a  sweet  expres 
sion  if  the  term  were  not  inconsistent  with  his  look  of  alert 
ness  and  sagacity. 


270  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

It  is  difficult  to  convey  a  just  idea  of  his  gayety  in  con 
nection  with  his  dignity  and  gravity,  which  his  name  ex 
pressed.  As  we  know  nothing  of  his  family,  of  course  it 
will  be  understood  that  Calvin  was  his  Christian  name. 
He  had  times  of  relaxation  into  utter  playfulness,  delight 
ing  in  a  ball  of  yarn,  catching  sportively  at  stray  ribbons 
when  his  mistress  was  at  her  toilet,  and  pursuing  his  own 
tail,  with  hilarity,  for  lack  of  anything  better.  He  could 
amuse  himself  by  the  hour,  and  he  did  not  care  for  chil 
dren;  perhaps  something  in  his  past  was  present  to  his 
memory.  He  had  absolutely  no  bad  habits,  and  his  dis 
position  was  perfect.  I  never  saw  him  exactly  angry, 
though  I  have  seen  his  tail  grow  to  an  enormous  size  when 
a  strange  cat  appeared  upon  his  lawn.  He  disliked  cats, 
evidently  regarding  them  as  feline  and  treacherous,  and 
he  had  no  association  with  them.  Occasionally  there  would 
be  heard  a  night  concert  in  the  shrubbery.  Calvin  would 
ask  to  have  the  door  opened,  and  then  you  would  hear  a 
rush  and  a  "  pestzt,"  and  the  concert  would  explode,  and 
Calvin  would  quietly  come  in  and  resume  his  seat  on  the 
hearth.  There  was  no  trace  of  anger  in  his  manner,  but 
he  wouldn't  have  any  of  that  about  the  house.  He  had 
the  rare  virtue  of  magnanimity.  Although  he  had  fixed 
notions  about  his  own  rights,  and  extraordinary  persist 
ency  in  getting  them,  he  never  showed  temper  at  a  repulse ; 
he  simply  and  firmly  persisted  till  he  had  what  he  wanted. 
His  diet  was  one  point;  his  idea  was  that  of  the  scholars 
about  dictionaries, — to  "  get  the  best."  He  knew  as  well  as 
anyone  what  was  in  the  house,  and  would  refuse  beef  if 
turkey  was  to  be  had;  and  if  there  were  oysters,  he  would 
wait  over  the  turkey  to  see  if  the  oysters  would  not  be 
forthcoming.  And  yet  he  was  not  a  gross  gourmand;  he 
would  eat  bread  if  he  saw  me  eating  it,  and  thought  he  was 
not  being  imposed  on.  His  habits  of  feeding,  also,  were 


CALVIN  271 

refined;  he  never  used  a  knife,  and  he  would  put  up  his 
hand  and  draw  the  fork  down  to  his  mouth  as  gracefully 
as  a  grown  person.  Unless  necessity  compelled,  he  would 
not  eat  in  the  kitchen,  but  insisted  upon  his  meals  in  the 
dining-room,  and  would  wait  patiently,  unless  a  stranger 
were  present;  and  then  he  was  sure  to  importune  the 
visitor,  hoping  that  the  latter  was  ignorant  of  the  rule  of 
the  house,  and  would  give  him  something.  They  used 
to  say  that  he  preferred  as  his  table-cloth  on  the  floor 
a  certain  well-known  church  journal;  but  this  was  said  by 
an  Episcopalian.  So  far  as  I  know,  he  had  no  religious 
prejudices,  except  that  he  did  not  like  the  association  with 
Romanists.  He  tolerated  the  servants,  because  they  be 
longed  to  the  house,  and  would  sometimes  linger  by  the 
kitchen  stove ;  but  the  moment  visitors  came  in  he  arose, 
opened  the  door,  and  marched  into  the  drawing-room.  Yet 
he  enjoyed  the  company  of  his  equals,  and  never  withdrew, 
no  matter  how  many  callers — whom  he  recognized  as  of 
his  society — might  come  into  the  drawing-room.  Calvin 
was  fond  of  company,  but  he  wanted  to  choose  it;  and  I 
have  no  doubt  that  his  was  an  aristocratic  fastidiousness 
rather  than  one  of  faith.  It  is  so  with  most  people. 

The  intelligence  of  Calvin  was  something  phenomenal, 
in  his  rank  of  life.  He  established  a  method  of  communi 
cating  his  wants,  and  even  some  of  his  sentiments;  and  he 
could  help  himself  in  many  things.  There  was  a  furnace 
register  in  a  retired  room,  where  he  used  to  go  when  he 
wished  to  be  alone,  that  he  always  opened  when  he  desired 
more  heat;  but  never  shut  it,  any  more  than  he  shut  the 
door  after  himself.  He  could  do  almost  everything  but 
speak ;  and  you  would  declare  sometimes  that  you  could  see 
a  pathetic  longing  to  do  that  in  his  intelligent  face.  I  have 
no  desire  to  overdraw  his  qualities,  but  if  there  was  one 
thing  in  him  more  noticeable  than  another,  it  was  his  fond- 


272  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

ness  for  nature.  He  could  content  himself  for  hours  at 
a  low  window,  looking  into  the  ravine  and  at  the  great  trees, 
noting  the  smallest  stir  there;  he  delighted,  above  all 
things,  to  accompany  me  walking  about  the  garden,  hearing 
the  birds,  getting  the  smell  of  the  fresh  earth,  and  rejoicing 
in  the  sunshine.  He  followed  me  and  gamboled  like  a  dog, 
rolling  over  on  the  turf  and  exhibiting  his  delight  in  a 
hundred  ways.  If  I  worked,  he  sat  and  watched  me,  or 
looked  off  over  the  bank,  and  kept  his  ear  open  to  the 
twitter  in  the  cherry-trees.  When  it  stormed,  he  was  sure 
to  sit  at  the  window,  keenly  watching  the  rain  or  the  snow, 
glancing  up  and  down  at  its  falling;  and  a  winter  tempest 
always  delighted  him.  I  think  he  was  genuinely  fond  of 
birds,  but,  so  far  as  I  know,  he  usually  confined  himself 
to  one  a  day ;  he  never  killed,  as  some  sportsmen  do,  for 
the  sake  of  killing,  but  only  as  civilized  people  do, — from 
necessity.  He  was  intimate  with  the  flying-squirrels  who 
dwell  in  the  chestnut-trees, — too  intimate,  for  almost  every 
day  in  the  summer  he  would  bring  in  one,  until  he  nearly 
discouraged  them.  He  was,  indeed,  a  superb  hunter,  and 
would  have  been  a  devastating  one,  if  his  bump  of  destruc- 
tiveness  had  not  been  offset  by  a  bump  of  moderation. 
There  was  very  little  of  the  brutality  of  the  lower  animals 
about  him ;  I  don't  think  he  enjoyed  rats  for  themselves, 
but  he  knew  his  business,  and  for  the  first  few  months  of 
his  residence  with  us  he  waged  an  awful  campaign  against 
the  horde,  and  after  that  his  simple  presence  was  sufficient 
to  deter  them  from  coming  on  the  premises.  Mice  amused 
him,  but  he  usually  considered  them  too  small  game  to  be 
taken  seriously;  I  have  seen  him  play  for  an  hour  with  a 
mouse,  and  then  let  him  go  with  a  royal  condescension.  In 
this  whole  matter  of  "  getting  a  living,"  Calvin  was  a  great 
contrast  to  the  rapacity  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 

I  hesitate  a  little  to  speak  of  his  capacity  for  friendship 


CALVIN"  273 

and  the  affectionateness  of  his  nature,  for  I  know  from  his 
own  reserve  that  he  would  not  care  to  have  it  much  talked 
about.  We  understood  each  other  perfectly,  but  we  never 
made  any  fuss  about  it ;  when  I  spoke  his  name  and  snapped 
my  fingers,  he  came  to  me ;  when  I  returned  home  at  night, 
he  was  pretty  sure  to  be  waiting  for  me  near  the  gate, 
and  would  rise  and  saunter  along  the  walk,  as  if  his  being 
there  were  purely  accidental, — so  shy  was  he  commonly  of 
showing  feeling;  and  when  I  opened  the  door  he  never 
rushed  in,  like  a  cat,  but  loitered,  and  lounged,  as  if  he 
had  had  no  intention  of  going  in,  but  would  condescend 
to.  And  yet,  the  fact  was,  he  knew  dinner  was  ready,  and 
he  was  bound  to  be  there.  He  kept  the  run  of  dinner 
time.  It  happened  sometimes,  during  our  absence  in  the 
summer,  that  dinner  would  be  early,  and  Calvin,  walking 
about  the  grounds,  missed  it  and  came  in  late.  But  he 
never  made  a  mistake  the  second  day.  There  was  one 
thing  he  never  did, — he  never  rushed  through  an  open  door 
way.  He  never  forgot  his  dignity.  If  he  had  asked  to  have 
the  door  opened,  and  was  eager  to  go  out,  he  always  went 
deliberately;  I  can  see  him  now,  standing  on  the  sill,  look 
ing  about  at  the  sky  as  if  he  was  thinking  whether  it  were 
worth  while  to  take  an  umbrella,  until  he  was  near  having 
his  tail  shut  in. 

His  friendship  was  rather  constant  than  demonstrative. 
When  we  returned  from  an  absence  of  nearly  two  years, 
Calvin  welcomed  us  with  evident  pleasure,  but  showed  his 
satisfaction  rather  by  tranquil  happiness  than  by  fuming 
about.  He  had  the  faculty  of  making  us  glad  to  get  home. 
It  was  his  constancy  that  was  so  attractive.  He  liked  com 
panionship,  but  he  wouldn't  be  petted,  or  fussed  over,  or 
sit  in  anyone's  lap  a  moment ;  he  always  extricated  himself 
from  such  familiarity  with  dignity  and  with  no  show  of 
temper.  If  there  was  any  petting  to  be  done,  however,  he 


274  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

chose  to  do  it.  Often  he  would  sit  looking  at  me,  and 
then,  moved  by  a  delicate  affection,  come  and  pull  at  my 
coat  and  sleeve  until  he  could  touch  my  face  with  his  nose, 
and  then  go  away  contented.  He  had  a  habit  of  coming 
to  my  study  in  the  morning,  sitting  quietly  by  my  side  or 
on  the  table  for  hours,  watching  the  pen  run  over  the  paper, 
occasionally  swinging  his  tail  round  for  a  blotter,  and  then 
going  to  sleep  among  the  papers  by  the  inkstand.  Or,  more 
rarely,  he  would  watch  the  writing  from  a  perch  on  my 
shoulder.  Writing  always  interested  him,  and,  until  he 
understood  it,  he  wanted  to  hold  the  pen. 

He  always  held  himself  in  a  kind  of  reserve  with  his 
friend,  as  if  he  had  said,  "  Let  us  respect  our  personality, 
and  not  make  a  '  mess '  of  friendship."  He  saw,  with 
Emerson,  the  risk  of  degrading  it  to  trivial  conveniency. 
"  Why-  insist  on  rash  personal  relations  with  your  friend  ?  " 
"  Leave  this  touching  and  clawing."  Yet  I  would  not  give 
an  unfair  notion  of  his  aloofness,  his  fine  sense  of  the 
sacredness  of  the  me  and  the  not-me.  And,  at  the  risk 
of  not  being  believed,  I  will  relate  an  incident,  which  was 
often  repeated.  Calvin  had  the  practice  of  passing  a  portion 
of  the  night  in  the  contemplation  of  its  beauties,  and  would 
come  into  our  chamber  over  the  roof  of  the  conservatory 
through  the  open  window,  summer  and  winter,  and  go  to 
sleep  on  the  foot  of  my  bed.  He  would  do  this  always 
exactly  in  this  way;  he  never  was  content  to  stay  in  the 
chamber  if  we  compelled  him  to  go  upstairs  and  through 
the  door.  He  had  the  obstinacy  of  General  Grant.  But  this 
is  by  the  way.  In  the  morning,  he  performed  his  toilet  and 
went  down  to  breakfast  with  the  rest  of  the  family.  Now, 
when  the  mistress  was  absent  from  home,  and  at  no  other 
time,  Calvin  would  come  in  the  morning,  when  the  bell 
rang,  to  the  head  of  the  bed,  put  up  his  feet  and  look  into 
my  face,  follow  me  about  when  I  rose,  "  assist "  at  the 


CALVIN"  275 

dressing,  and  in  many  purring  ways  show  his  fondness,  as 
if  he  had  plainly  said,  "  I  know  that  she  has  gone  away, 
but  I  am  here."  Such  was  Calvin  in  rare  moments. 

He  had  his  limitations.  Whatever  passion  he  had  for 
nature,  he  had  no  conception  of  art.  There  was  sent  to 
him  once  a  fine  and  very  expressive  cat's  head  in  bronze,  by 
Fremiet.  I  placed  it  on  the  floor.  He  regarded  it  intently, 
approached  it  cautiously  and  crouchingly,  touched  it  with 
his  nose,  perceived  the  fraud,  turned  away  abruptly,  and 
never  would  notice  it  afterward.  On  the  whole,  his  life 
was  not  only  a  successful  one,  but  a  happy  one.  He  never 
had  but  one  fear,  so  far  as  I  know :  he  had  a  mortal  and  a 
reasonable  terror  of  plumbers.  He  would  never  stay  in 
the  house  when  they  were  here.  No  coaxing  could  quiet 
him.  Of  course  he  didn't  share  our  fear  about  their  charges, 
but  he  must  have  had  some  dreadful  experience  with  them 
in  that  portion  of  his  life  which  is  unknown  to  us.  A 
plumber  was  to  him  the  devil,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that, 
in  his  scheme,  plumbers  were  foreordained  to  do  him  mis 
chief. 

In  speaking  of  his  worth,  it  has  never  occurred  to  me 
to  estimate  Calvin  by  the  worldly  standard.  I  know  that 
it  is  customary  now,  when  anyone  dies,  to  ask  how  much 
he  was  worth,  and  that  no  obituary  in  the  newspapers 
is  considered  complete  without  such  an  estimate.  The 
plumbers  in  our  house  were  one  day  overheard  to  say  that, 
"  They  say  that  she  says  that  he  says  that  he  wouldn't  take 
a  hundred  dollars  for  him."  It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that 
I  never  made  such  a  remark,  and  that,  so  far  as  Calvin 
was  concerned,  there  was  no  purchase  in  money. 

As  I  look  back  upon  it,  Calvin's  life  seems  to  me  a 
fortunate  one,  for  it  was  natural  and  unforced.  He  ate 
when  he  was  hungry,  slept  when  he  was  sleepy,  and  en 
joyed  existence  to  the  very  tips  of  his  toes  and  the  end  of 


276  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

his  expressive  and  slow-moving  tail.  He  delighted  to  roam 
about  the  garden,  and  stroll  among  the  trees,  and  to  lie 
on  the  green  grass  and  luxuriate  in  all  the  sweet  influences 
of  summer.  You  could  never  accuse  him  of  idleness,  and 
yet  he  knew  the  secret  of  repose.  The  poet  who  wrote  so 
prettily  of  him  that  his  little  life  was  rounded  with  a  sleep, 
understated  his  felicity;  it  was  rounded  with  a  good  many. 
His  conscience  never  seemed  to  interfere  with  his  slumbers. 
In  fact,  he  had  good  habits  and  a  contented  mind.  I  can  see 
him  now  walk  in  at  the  study  door,  sit  down  by  my  chair, 
bring  his  tail  artistically  about  his  feet,  and  look  up  at  me 
with  unspeakable  happiness  in  his  handsome  face.  I  often 
thought  that  he  felt  the  dumb  limitation  which  denied  him 
the  power  of  language.  But  since  he  was  denied  speech,  he 
scorned  the  inarticulate  mouthings  of  the  lower  animals. 
The  vulgar  mewing  and  yowling  of  the  cat  species  was 
beneath  him;  he  sometimes  uttered  a  sort  of  articulate 
and  well-bred  ejaculation,  when  he  wished  to  call  atten 
tion  to  something  that  he  considered  remarkable,  or  to  some 
want  of  his,  but  he  never  went  whining  about.  He  would 
sit  for  hours  at  a  closed  window,  when  he  desired  to  enter, 
without  a  murmur,  and  when  it  was  opened  he  never  ad 
mitted  that  he  had  been  impatient  by  "  bolting  "  in.  Though 
speech  he  had  not,  and  the  unpleasant  kind  of  utterance 
given  to  his  race  he  would  not  use,  he  had  a  mighty  power 
of  purr  to  express  his  measureless  content  with  congenial 
society.  There  was  in  him  a  musical  organ  with  stops 
of  varied  power  and  expression,  upon  which  I  have  no  doubt 
he  could  have  performed  Scarlatti's  celebrated  cat's-fugue. 

Whether  Calvin  died  of  old  age,  or  was  carried  off  by 
one  of  the  diseases  incident  to  youth,  it  is  impossible  to  say  ; 
for  his  departure  was  as  quiet  as  his  advent  was  mysterious. 
I  only  know  that  he  appeared  to  us  in  this  world  in  his 
perfect  stature  and  beauty,  and  that  after  a  time,  like 


CALVIN  277 

Lohengrin,  he  withdrew.  In  his  illness  there  was  nothing 
more  to  be  regretted  than  in  all  his  blameless  life.  I  sup 
pose  there  never  was  an  illness  that  had  more  of  dignity 
and  sweetness  and  resignation  in  it.  It  came  on  gradually, 
in  a  kind  of  listlessness  and  want  of  appetite.  An  alarming 
symptom  was  his  preference  for  the  warmth  of  a  furnace- 
register  to  the  lively  sparkle  of  the  open  wood-fire.  What 
ever  pain  he  suffered,  he  bore  it  in  silence,  and  seemed  only 
anxious  not  to  obtrude  his  malady.  We  tempted  him  with 
the  delicacies  of  the  season,  but  it  soon  became  impossible 
for  him  to  eat,  and  for  two  weeks  he  ate  or  drank  scarcely 
anything.  Sometimes  he  made  an  effort  to  take  something, 
but  it  was  evident  that  he  made  the  effort  to  please  us. 
The  neighbors — and  I  am  convinced  that  the  advice  of 
neighbors  is  never  good  for  anything — suggested  catnip. 
He  wouldn't  even  smell  it.  We  had  the  attendance  of  an 
amateur  practitioner  of  medicine,  whose  real  office  was 
the  cure  of  souls,  but  nothing  touched  his  case.  He  took 
what  was  offered,  but  it  was  with  the  air  of  one  to  whom 
the  time  for  pellets  was  passed.  He  sat  or  lay  day  after 
day  almost  motionless,  never  once  making  a  display  of  those 
vulgar  convulsions  or  contortions  of  pain  which  are  so  dis 
agreeable  to  society.  His  favorite  place  was  on  the  brightest 
spot  of  a  Smyrna  rug  by  the  conservatory,  where  the  sun 
light  fell  and  he  could  hear  the  fountain  play.  If  we  went 
to  him  and  exhibited  our  interest  in  his  condition,  he  always 
purred  in  recognition  of  our  sympathy.  And  when  I  spoke 
his  name,  he  looked  up  witfi  an  expression  that  said,  "  I  un 
derstand  it,  old  fellow,  but  it's  no  use."  He  was  to  all 
who  came  to  visit  him  a  model  of  calmness  and  patience  in 
affliction. 

I  was  absent  from  home  at  the  last,  but  heard  by  daily 
postal-card  of  his  failing  condition;  and  never  again  saw 
him  alive.  One  sunny  morning,  he  rose  from  his  rug,  went 


278  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

into  the  conservatory  (he  was  very  thin  then),  walked 
around  it  deliberately,  looking  at  all  the  plants  he  knew, 
and  then  went  to  the  bay-window  in  the  dining-room,  and 
stood  a  long  time  looking  out  upon  the  little  field,  now  brown 
and  sere,  and  toward  the  garden,  where  perhaps  the  happi 
est  hours  of  his  life  had  been  spent.  It  was  a  last  look. 
He  turned  and  walked  away,  laid  himself  clown  upon  the 
bright  spot  in  the  rug,  and  quietly  died. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  a  little  shock  went  through 
the  neighborhood  when  it  was  known  that  Calvin  was  dead, 
so  marked  was  his  individuality;  and  his  friends,  one  after 
another,  came  in  to  see  him.  There  was  no  sentimental 
nonsense  about  his  obsequies;  it  was  felt  that  any  parade 
would  have  been  distasteful  to  him.  John,  who  acted  as 
undertaker,  prepared  a  candle-box  for  him,  and  I  believe 
assumed  a  professional  decorum;  but  there  may  have  been 
the  usual  levity  underneath,  for  I  heard  that  he  remarked 
in  the  kitchen  that  it  was  the  "  dryest  wake  he  ever  at 
tended."  Everybody,  however,  felt  a  fondness  for  Calvin, 
and  regarded  him  with  a  certain  respect.  Between  him  and 
Bertha  there  existed  a  great  friendship,  -and  she  appre 
hended  his  nature ;  she  used  to  say  that  sometimes  she  was 
afraid  of  him,  he  looked  at  her  so  intelligently;  she  was 
never  certain  that  he  was  what  he  appeared  to  be. 

When  I  returned,  they  had  laid  Calvin  on  a  table  in  an 
upper  chamber  by  an  open  window.  It  was  February.  He 
reposed  in  a  candle-box,  lined  about  the  edge  with  ever 
green,  and  at  his  head  stood  a  little  wine-glass  with  flowers. 
He  lay  with  his  head  tucked  down  in  his  arms, — a  favorite 
position  of  his  before  the  fire, — as  if  asleep  in  the  comfort 
of  his  soft  and  exquisite  fur.  It  was  the  involuntary  ex 
clamation  of  those  who  saw  him,  "  How  natural  he  looks ! " 
As  for  myself,  I  said  nothing.  John  buried  him  under  the 
twin  hawthorn-trees, — one  white  and  the  other  pink, — in  a 


CALVIN  279 

spot  where  Calvin  was  fond  of  lying  and  listening  to  the 
hum  of  summer  insects  and  the  twitter  of  birds. 

Perhaps  I  have  failed  to  make  appear  the  individuality 
of  character  that  was  so  evident  to  those  who  knew  him. 
At  any  rate,  I  have  set  down  nothing  concerning  him  but 
the  literal  truth.  He  was  always  a  mystery.  I  did  not 
know  whence  he  came ;  I  do  not  know  whither  he  has  gone. 
I  would  not  weave  one  spray  of  falsehood  in  the  wreath 
I  lay  upon  his  grave. 


[From  My  Summer  in  a  Garden,  by  Charles  Dudley  Warner.    Copy 
right,  1870,  by  Fields,  Osgood  &  Co.     Copyright,  1898,  by  Charles 
Dudley  Warner.    Copyright,  1912,  by  Susan  Lee  Warner.] 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO 
CIVILIZATION 

CHARLES  WILLIAM  ELIOT 

LOOKING  back  over  forty  centuries  of  history,  we  ob 
serve  that  many  nations  have  made  characteristic  contribu 
tions  to  the  progress  of  civilization,  the  beneficent  effects  of 
which  have  been  permanent,  although  the  races  that  made 
them  may  have  lost  their  national  form  and  organization, 
or  their  relative  standing  among  the  nations  of  the  earth. 
Thus,  the  Hebrew  race,  during  many  centuries,  made  su 
preme  contributions  to  religious  thought;  and  the  Greek, 
during  the  brief  climax  of  the  race,  to  speculative  philoso- 
ophy,  architecture,  sculpture,  and  the  drama.  The  Roman 
people  developed  military  colonization,  aqueducts,  roads 
and  bridges,  and  a  great  body  of  public  law,  large  parts 
of  which  still  survive ;  and  the  Italians  of  the  middle  ages 
and  the  Renaissance  developed  ecclesiastical  organization 
and  the  fine  arts,  as  tributary  to  the  splendor  of  the  church 
and  to  municipal  luxury.  England,  for  several  centuries, 
has  contributed  to  the  institutional  development  of  repre 
sentative  government  and  public  justice;  the  Dutch,  in  the 
sixteenth  century,  made  a  superb  struggle  for  free  thought 
and  free  government;  France,  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
taught  the  doctrine  of  individual  freedom  and  the  theory 
of  human  rights ;  and  Germany,  at  two  periods  within  the 
nineteenth  century,  fifty  years  apart,  proved  the  vital  force 
of  the  sentiment  of  nationality.  I  ask  you  to  consider  with 

280 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION     281 

me  what  characteristic  and  durable  contributions  the  Ameri 
can  people  have  been  making  to  the  progress  of  civiliza 
tion. 

The  first  and  principal  contribution  to  which  I  shall 
ask  your  attention  is  the  advance  made  in  the  United  States, 
not  in  theory  only,  but  in  practice,  toward  the  abandonment 
of  war  as  the  means  of  settling  disputes  between  nations, 
the  substitution  of  discussion  and  arbitration,  and  the  avoid 
ance  of  armaments.  If  the  intermittent  Indian  fighting  and 
the  brief  contest  with  the  Barbary  corsairs  be  disregarded, 
the  United  States  have  had  only  four  years  and  a  quarter 
of  international  war  in  the  one  hundred  and  seven  years 
since  the  adoption  of  the  Constitution.  Within  the  same 
period  the  United  States  have  been  a  party  to  forty-seven 
arbitrations — being  more  than  half  of  all  that  have  taken 
place  in  the  modern  world.  The  questions  settled  by  these 
arbitrations  have  been  just  such  as  have  commonly  caused 
wars,  namely,  questions  of  boundary,  fisheries,  damage 
caused  by  war  or  civil  disturbances,  and  injuries  to  com 
merce.  Some  of  them  were  of  great  magnitude,  the  four 
made  under  the  treaty  of  Washington  (May  8,  1871)  being 
the  most  important  that  have  ever  taken  place.  Confident  in 
their  strength,  and  relying  on  their  ability  to  adjust  inter 
national  differences,  the  United  States  have  habitually  main 
tained,  by  voluntary  enlistment  for  short  terms,  a  standing 
army  and  a  fleet  which,  in  proportion  to  the  population, 
are  insignificant. 

The  beneficent  effects  of  this  American  contribution  to 
civilization  are  of  two  sorts :  in  the  first  place,  the  direct 
evils  of 'war  and  of  preparations  for  war  have  been  dimin 
ished  ;  and  secondly,  the  influence  of  the  war  spirit  on  the 
perennial  conflict  between  the  rights  of  the  single  personal 
unit  and  the  powers  of  the  multitude  that  constitute  or 
ganized  society — or,  in  other  words,  between  individual 


282  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

freedom  and  collective  authority — has  been  reduced  to  the 
lowest  terms.  War  has  been,  and  still  is,  the  school  of  col 
lectivism,  the  warrant  of  tyranny.  Century  after  century, 
tribes,  clans,  and  nations  have  sacrificed  the  liberty  of  the 
individual  to  the  fundamental  necessity  of  being  strong  for 
combined  defense  or  attack  in  war.  Individual  freedom  is 
crushed  in  war,  for  the  nature  of  war  is  inevitably  despotic. 
It  says  to  the  private  person :  "  Obey  without  a  question, 
even  unto  death;  die  in  this  ditch,  without  knowing  why; 
walk  into  that  deadly  thicket;  mount  this  embankment,  be 
hind  which  are  men  who  will  try  to  kill  you,  lest  you  should 
kill  them ;  make  part  of  an  immense  machine  for  blind 
destruction,  cruelty,  rapine,  and  killing."  At  this  moment 
every  young  man  in  Continental  Europe  learns  the  lesson  of 
absolute  military  obedience,  and  feels  himself  subject  to  this 
crushing  power  of  militant  society,  against  which  no  rights 
of  the  individual  to  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness 
avail  anything.  This  pernicious  influence,  inherent  in  the 
social  organization  of  all  Continental  Europe  during  many 
centuries,  the  American  people  have  for  generations  es 
caped,  and  they  show  other  nations  how  to  escape  it.  I 
ask  your  attention  to  the  favorable  conditions  under  which 
this  contribution  of  the  United  States  to  civilization  has 
been  made. 

There  has  been  a  deal  of  fighting  on  the  American  conti 
nent  during  the  past  three  centuries ;  but  it  has  not  been  of 
the  sort  which  most  imperils  liberty.  The  first  European 
colonists  who  occupied  portions  of  the  coast  of  North  Amer 
ica  encountered  in  the  Indians  men  of  the  Stone  Age,  who 
ultimately  had  to  be  resisted  and  quelled  by  force.  The 
Indian  races  were  at  a  stage  of  development  thousands 
of  years  behind  that  of  the  Europeans.  They  could  not 
be  assimilated;  for  the  most  part  they  could  not  be  taught 
or  even  reasoned  with;  with  a  few  exceptions  they  had  to 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION     283 

be  driven  away  by  prolonged  fighting,  or  subdued  by  force 
so  that  they  would  live  peaceably  with  the  whites.  This 
warfare,  however,  always  had  in  it  for  the  whites  a  large 
element  of  self-defense — the  homes  and  families  of  the  set 
tlers  were  to  be  defended  against  a  stealthy  and  pitiless  foe. 
Constant  exposure  to  the  attacks  of  savages  was  only  one 
of  the  formidable  dangers  and  difficulties  which  for  a  hun 
dred  years  the  early  settlers  had  to  meet,  and  which  devel 
oped  in  them  courage,  hardiness,  and  persistence.  The 
French  and  English  wars  on  the  North  American  continent, 
always  more  or  less  mixed  with  Indian  warfare,  were  char 
acterized  by  race  hatred  and  religious  animosity — two  of  the 
commonest  causes  of  war  in  all  ages ;  but  they  did  not  tend 
to  fasten  upon  the  English  colonists  any  objectionable  public 
authority,  or  to  contract  the  limits  of  individual  liberty. 
They  furnished  a  school  of  martial  qualities  at  small  cost 
to  liberty.  In  the  War  of  Independence  there  was  a 
distinct  hope  and  purpose  to  enlarge  individual  liberty.  It 
made  possible  a  confederation  of  the  colonies,  and,  ulti 
mately,  the  adoption  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States.  It  gave  to  the  thirteen  colonies  a  lesson  in  col 
lectivism,  but  it  was  a  needed  lesson  on  the  necessity  of 
combining  their  forces  to  resist  an  oppressive  external 
authority.  The  war  of  1812  is  properly  called  the  Second 
War  of  Independence,  for  it  was  truly  a  fight  for  liberty 
and  for  the  rights  of  neutrals,  in  resistance  to  the  impress 
ment  of  seamen  and  other  oppressions  growing  out  of 
European  conflicts.  The  civil  war  of  1861-65  was  waged, 
on  the  side  of  the  North,  primarily,  to  prevent  the  dismem 
berment  of  the  country,  and,  secondarily  and  incidentally, 
to  destroy  the  institution  of  slavery.  On  the  Northern  side 
it  therefore  called  forth  a  generous  element  of  popular  ardor 
in  defense  of  free  institutions ;  and  though  it  temporarily 
caused  centralization  of  great  powers  in  the  government,  it 


284  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

did  as  much  to  promote  individual  freedom  as  it  did  to 
strengthen  public  authority. 

In  all  this  series  of  fightings  the  main  motives  were  self- 
defense,  resistance  to  oppression,  the  enlargement  of  liberty, 
and  the  conservation  of  national  acquisitions.  The  war 
with  Mexico,  it  is  true,  was  of  a  wholly  different  type. 
That  was  a  war  of  conquest,  and  of  conquest  chiefly  in  the 
interest  of  African  slavery.  It  was  also  an  unjust  attack 
made  by  a  powerful  people  on  a  feeble  one;  but  it  lasted 
less  than  two  years,  and  the  number  of  men  engaged  in  it 
was  at  no  time  large.  Moreover,  by  the  treaty  which 
ended  the  war,  the  conquering  nation  agreed  to  pay  the 
conquered  eighteen  million  dollars  in  partial  compensation 
for  some  of  the  territory  wrested  from  it,  instead  of  de 
manding  a  huge  war-indemnity,  as  the  European  way  is. 
Its  results  contradicted  the  anticipations  both  of  those  who 
advocated  and  of  those  who  opposed  it.  It  was  one  of 
the  wrongs  which  prepared  the  way  for  the  great  rebellion  ; 
but  its  direct  evils  were  of  moderate  extent,  and  it  had  no 
effect  on  the  perennial  conflict  between  individual  liberty 
and  public  power. 

In  the  meantime,  partly  as  the  results  of  Indian  fighting 
and  the  Mexican  war,  but  chiefly  through  purchases  and 
arbitrations,  the  American  people  had  acquired  a  territory 
so  extensive,  so  defended  by  oceans,  gulfs,  and  great  lakes, 
and  so  intersected  by  those  great  natural  highways,  naviga- 
.ble  rivers,  that  it  would  obviously  be  impossible  for  any 
enemy  to  overrun  or  subdue  it.  The  civilized  nations  of 
Europe,  western  Asia,  and  northern  Africa  have  always  been 
liable  to  hostile  incursions  from  without.  Over  and  over 
again  barbarous  hordes  have  overthrown  established  civili 
zations  ;  and  at  this  moment  there  is  not  a  nation  of  Europe 
which  does  not  feel  obliged  to  maintain  monstrous  arma 
ments  for  defense  against  its  neighbors.  The  American 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION     285 

people  have  long  been  exempt  from  such  terrors,  and  are 
now  absolutely  free  from  this  necessity  of  keeping  in  readi 
ness  to  meet  heavy  assaults.  The  absence  of  a  great  standing 
army  and  of  a  large  fleet  has  been  a  main  characteristic  of 
the  United  States,  in  contrast  with  the  other  civilized 
nations ;  this  has  been  a  great  inducement  to  immigration, 
and  a  prime  cause  of  the  country's  rapid  increase  in  wealth. 
The  United  States  have  no  formidable  neighbor,  except 
Great  Britain  in  Canada.  In  April,  1817,  by  a  convention 
made  between  Great  Britain  and  the  United  States,  with 
out  much  public  discussion  or  observation,  these  two  pow 
erful  nations  agreed  that  each  should  keep  on  the  Great 
Lakes  only  a  few  police  vessels  of  insignificant  size  and 
armament.  This  agreement  was  made  but  four  years  after 
Perry's  naval  victory  on  Lake  Erie,  and  only  three  years 
after  the  burning  of  Washington  by  a  British  force.  It 
was  one  of  the  first  acts  of  Monroe's  first  administration,  and 
it  would  be  difficult  to  find  in  all  history  a  more  judicious 
or  effectual  agreement  between  two  powerful  neighbors. 
For  eighty  years  this  beneficent  convention  has  helped  to 
keep  the  peace.  The  European  way  would  have  been  to 
build  competitive  fleets,  dock-yards,  and  fortresses,  all  of 
which  would  have  helped  to  bring  on  war  during  the  periods 
of  mutual  exasperation  which  have  occurred  since  1817. 
Monroe's  second  administration  was  signalized,  six  years 
later,  by  the  declaration  that  the  United  States  would  con 
sider  any  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  Holy  Alliance  to  extend 
their  system  to  any  portion  of  this  hemisphere  as  dangerous 
to  the  peace  and  safety  of  the  United  States.  This  an 
nouncement  was  designed  to  prevent  the  introduction  on 
the  American  continent  of  the  horrible  European  system — 
with  its  balance  of  power,  its  alliances  offensive  and  de 
fensive  in  opposing  groups,  and  its  perpetual  armaments  on 
an  enormous  scale.  That  a  declaration  expressly  intended 


286  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

to  promote  peace  and  prevent  armaments  should  now  be 
perverted  into  an  argument  for  arming  and  for  a  bel 
ligerent  public  policy  is  an  extraordinary  perversion  of  the 
true  American  doctrine. 

The  ordinary  causes  of  war  between  nation  and  nation 
have  been  lacking  in  America  for  the  last  century  and  a 
quarter.  How  many  wars  in  the  world's  history  have 
been  due  to  contending  dynasties;  how  many  of  the  most 
cruel  and  protracted  wars  have  been  due  to  religious  strife ; 
how  many  to  race  hatred !  No  one  of  these  causes  of  war 
has  been  efficacious  in  America  since  the  French  were  over 
come  in  Canada  by  the  English  in  1759.  Looking  forward 
into  the  future,  we  find  it  impossible  to  imagine  circum 
stances  under  which  any  of  these  common  causes  of  war 
can  take  effect  on  the  North  American  continent.  There 
fore,  the  ordinary  motives  for  maintaining  armaments  in 
time  of  peace,  and  concentrating  the  powers  of  government 
in  such  a  way  as  to  interfere  with  individual  liberty,  have 
not  been  in  play  in  the  United  States  as  among  the  nations 
of  Europe,  and  are  not  likely  to  be. 

Such  have  been  the  favorable  conditions  under  which 
America  has  made  its  best  contribution  to  the  progress 
of  our  race. 

There  are  some  people  of  a  perverted  sentimentality  who 
occasionally  lament  the  absence  in  our  country  of  the  ordi 
nary  inducements  to  war,  on  the  ground  that  war  develops 
certain  noble  qualities  in  some  of  the  combatants,  and  gives 
opportunity  for  the  practice  of  heroic  virtues,  such  as  cour 
age,  loyalty,  and  self-sacrifice.  It  is  further  said  that  pro 
longed  peace  makes  nations  effeminate,  luxurious,  and  mate 
rialistic,  and  substitutes  for  the  high  ideals  of  the  patriot 
soldier  the  low  ideals  of  the  farmer,  manufacturer,  trades 
man,  and  pleasure-seeker.  This  view  seems  to  me  to  err 
in  two  opposite  ways.  In  the  first  place,  it  forgets  that 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION    287 

war,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  develops  some  splendid  vir 
tues,  is  the  most  horrible  occupation  that  human  beings 
can  possibly  engage  in.  It  is  cruel,  treacherous,  and  mur 
derous.  Defensive  warfare,  particularly  on  the  part  of  a 
weak  nation  against  powerful  invaders  or  oppressors,  excites 
a  generous  sympathy;  but  for  every  heroic  defense  there 
must  be  an  attack  by  a  preponderating  force,  and  war,  being 
the  conflict  of  the  two,  must  be  judged  by  its  moral  effects 
not  on  one  party,  but  on  both  parties.  Moreover,  the 
weaker  party  may  have  the  worse  cause.  The  immediate 
ill  effects  of  war  are  bad  enough,  but  its  after  effects  are 
generally  worse,  because  indefinitely  prolonged  and  in 
definitely  wasting  and  damaging.  At  this  moment,  thirty- 
one  years  after  the  end  of  our  civil  war,  there  are  two 
great  evils  afflicting  our  country  which  took  their  rise  in 
that  war,  namely,  (i)  the  belief  of  a  large  proportion  of 
our  people  in  money  without  intrinsic  value,  or  worth  less 
than  its  face,  and  made  current  solely  by  act  of  Congress, 
and  (2)  the  payment  of  immense  annual  sums  in  pensions. 
It  is  the  paper-money  delusion  born  of  the  civil  war  which 
generated  and  supports  the  silver-money  delusion  of  to-day. 
As  a  consequence  of  the  war,  the  nation  has  paid  $2,000,- 
000,000  in  pensions  within  thirty-three  years.  So  far  as 
pensions  are  paid  to  disabled  persons,  they  are  a  just  and 
inevitable,  but  unproductive  expenditure;  so  far  as  they 
are  paid  to  persons  who  are  not  disabled, — men  or  women, 
— they  are  in  the  main  not  only  unproductive  but  demoraliz 
ing;  so  far  as  they  promote  the  marriage  of  young  women 
to  old  men,  as  a  pecuniary  speculation,  they  create  a  grave 
social  evil.  It  is  impossible  to  compute  or  even  imagine 
the  losses  and  injuries  already  inflicted  by  the  fiat-money 
delusion ;  and  we  know  that  some  of  the  worst  evils  of 
the  pension  system  will  go  on  for  a  hundred  years  to  come, 
unless  the  laws  about  widows'  pensions  are  changed  for 


288  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

the  better.  It  is  a  significant  fact  that  of  the  existing  pen 
sioners  of  the  war  of  1812  only  twenty-one  are  surviving 
soldiers  or  sailors,  while  3826  are  widows.1 

War  gratifies,  or  used  to  gratify,  the  combative  instinct 
of  mankind,  but  it  gratifies  also  the  love  of  plunder,  de 
struction,  cruel  discipine,  and  arbitrary  power.  It  is  doubt 
ful  whether  fighting  with  modern  appliances  will  continue 
to  gratify  the  savage  instinct  of  combat;  for  it  is  not  likely 
that  in  the  future  two  opposing  lines  of  men  can  ever 
meet,  or  any  line  or  column  reach  an  enemy's  intrench- 
ments.  The  machine-gun  can  only  be  compared  to  the 
scythe,  which  cuts  off  every  blade  of  grass  within  its  sweep. 
It  has  made  cavalry  charges  impossible,  just  as  the  modern 
ironclad  has  made  impossible  the  manoeuvers  of  one  of 
Nelson's  fleets.  On  land,  the  only  mode  of  approach  of 
one  line  to  another  must  hereafter  be  by  concealment,  crawl 
ing,  or  surprise.  Naval  actions  will  henceforth  be  conflicts 
between  opposing  machines,  guided,  to  be  sure,  by  men; 
but  it  will  be  the  best  machine  that  wins,  and  not  necessarily 
the  most  enduring  men.  War  will  become  a  contest  between 
treasuries  or  war-chests;  for  now  that  10,000  men  can  fire 
away  a  million  dollars'  worth  of  ammunition  in  an  hour, 
no  poor  nation  can  long  resist  a  rich  one,  unless  there  be 
some  extraordinary  difference  between  the  two  in  mental 
and  moral  strength. 

The  view  that  war  is  desirable  omits  also  the  considera 
tion  that  modern  social  and  industrial  life  affords  ample 
opportunities  for  the  courageous  and  loyal  discharge  of 
duty,  apart  from  the  barbarities  of  warfare.  There  are 
many  serviceable  occupations  in  civil  life  which  call  for  all 
the  courage  and  fidelity  of  the  best  soldier,  and  for  more 
than  his  independent  responsibility,  because  not  pursued  in 
masses  or  under  the  immediate  command  of  superiors.  Such 
1  June  30,  1895. 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION     289 

occupations  are  those  of  the  locomotive  engineer,  the  electric 
lineman,  the  railroad  brakeman,  the  city  fireman,  and  the 
policeman.  The  occupation  of  the  locomotive  engineer  re 
quires  constantly  a  high  degree  of  skill,  alertness,  fidelity, 
and  resolution,  and  at  any  moment  may  call  for  heroic  self- 
forgetfulness.  The  occupation  of  a  lineman  requires  all 
the  courage  and  endurance  of  a  soldier,  whose  lurking  foe 
is  mysterious  and  invisible.  In  the  two  years,  1893  and 
1894,  there  were  34,000  trainmen  killed  and  wounded  on 
the  railroads  of  the  United  States,  and  25,000  other  rail 
road  employes  besides.  I  need  not  enlarge  on  the  dangers 
of  the  fireman's  occupation,  or  on  the  disciplined  gallantry 
with  which  its  risks  are  habitually  incurred.  The  policeman 
in  large  cities  needs  every  virtue  of  the  best  soldier,  for 
in  the  discharge  of  many  of  his  most  important  duties  he 
is  alone.  Even  the  feminine  occupation  of  the  trained 
nurse  illustrates  every  heroic  quality  which  can  possibly 
be  exhibited  in  war;  for  she,  simply  in  the  way  of  duty, 
without  the  stimulus  of  excitement  or  companionship,  runs 
risks  from  which  many  a  soldier  in  hot  blood  would  shrink. 
No  one  need  be  anxious  about  the  lack  of  opportunities  in 
civilized  life  for  the  display  of  heroic  qualities.  New  indus 
tries  demand  new  forms  of  fidelity  and  self-sacrificing  devo 
tion.  Every  generation  develops  some  new  kind  of  hero. 
Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  the  "  scab  "  is  a  creditable  type 
of  nineteenth  century  hero?  In  defense  of  his  rights  as  an 
individual,  he  deliberately  incurs  the  reprobation  of  many 
of  his  fellows,  and  runs  the  immediate  risk  of  bodily  injury, 
or  even  of  death.  He  also  risks  his  livelihood  for  the  fu 
ture,  and  thereby  the  well-being  of  his  family.  He  steadily 
asserts  in  action  his  right  to  work  on  such  conditions  as 
he  sees  fit  to  make,  and,  in  so  doing,  he  exhibits  remarkable 
courage,  and  renders  a  great  service  to  his  fellow-men. 
He  is  generally  a  quiet,  unpretending,  silent  person,  who 


290  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

values  his  personal  freedom  more  than  the  society  and 
approbation  of  his  mates.  Often  he  is  impelled  to  work 
by  family  affection,  but  this  fact  does  not  diminish  his  hero 
ism.  There  are  file-closers  behind  the  line  of  battle  of 
the  bravest  regiment.  Another  modern  personage  who  needs 
heroic  endurance,  and  often  exhibits  it,  is  the  public  serv 
ant  who  steadily  does  his  duty  against  the  outcry  of  a  party 
press  bent  on  perverting  his  every  word  and  act.  Through 
the  telegram,  cheap  postage,  and  the  daily  newspaper,  the 
forces  of  hasty  public  opinion  can  now  be  concentrated  and 
expressed  with  a  rapidity  and  intensity  unknown  to  pre 
ceding  generations.  In  consequence,  the  independent 
thinker  or  actor,  or  the  public  servant,  when  his  thoughts 
or  acts  run  counter  to  prevailing  popular  or  party  opinions, 
encounters  sudden  and  intense  obloquy,  which,  to  many 
temperaments,  is  very  formidable.  That  habit  of  submit 
ting  to  the  opinion  of  the  majority  which  democracy  fosters 
renders  the  storm  of  detraction  and  calumny  all  the  more 
difficult  to  endure — makes  it,  indeed,  so  intolerable  to  many 
citizens,  that  they  will  conceal  or  modify  their  opinions 
rather  than  endure  it.  Yet  the  very  breath  of  life  for  a 
democracy  is  free  discussion,  and  the  taking  account,  of 
all  opinions  honestly  held  and  reasonably  expressed.  The 
unreality  of  the  vilification  of  public  men  in  the  modern 
press  is  often  revealed  by  the  sudden  change  when  an  emi 
nent  public  servant  retires  or  dies.  A  man  for  whom  no 
words  of  derision  or  condemnation  were  strong  enough 
yesterday  is  recognized  to-morrow  as  an  honorable  and 
serviceable  person,  and  a  credit  to  his  country.  Neverthe 
less,  this  habit  of  partizan  ridicule  and  denunciation  in  the 
daily  reading-matter  of  millions  of  people  calls  for  a  new 
kind  of  courage  and  toughness  in  public  men,  and  calls  for 
it,  not  in  brief  moments  of  excitement  only,  but  steadily, 
year  in  and  year  out.  Clearly,  there  is  no  need  of  bringing 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION     291 

on  wars  in  order  to  breed  heroes.  Civilized  life  affords 
plenty  of  opportunities  for  heroes,  and  for  a  better  kind 
than  war  or  any  other  savagery  has  ever  produced.  More 
over,  none  but  lunatics  would  set  a  city  on  fire  in  order 
to  give  opportunities  for  heroism  to  firemen,  or  introduce 
the  cholera  or  yellow  fever  to  give  physicians  and  nurses 
opportunity  for  practicing  disinterested  devotion,  or  con 
demn  thousands  of  people  to  extreme  poverty  in  order  that 
some  well-to-do  persons  might  practice  a  beautiful  charity. 
It  is  equally  crazy  to  advocate  war  on  the  ground  that  it 
is  a  school  for  heroes. 

Another  misleading  argument  for  war  needs  brief  notice. 
It  is  said  that  war  is  a  school  of  national  development — that 
a  nation,  when  conducting  a  great  war,  puts  forth  prodigious 
exertions  to  raise  money,  supply  munitions,  enlist  troops, 
and  keep  them  in  the  field,  and  often  gets  a  clearer  concep 
tion  and  a  better  control  of  its  own  material  and  moral 
forces  while  making  these  unusual  exertions.  The  nation 
which  means  to  live  in  peace  necessarily  foregoes,  it  is  said, 
these  valuable  opportunities  of  abnormal  activity.  Natu 
rally,  such  a  nation's  abnormal  activities  devoted  to  de 
struction  would  be  diminished ;  but  its  normal  and  abnormal 
activities  devoted  to  construction  and  improvement  ought  to 
increase. 

One  great  reason  for  the  rapid  development  of  the 
United  States  since  the  adoption  of  the  Constitution  is  the 
comparative  exemption  of  the  whole  people  from  war,  dread 
of  war,  and  preparations  for  war.  The  energies  of  the 
people  have  been  directed  into  other  channels.  The  prog 
ress  of  applied  science  during  the  present  century,  and  the 
new  ideals  concerning  the  well-being  of  human  multitudes, 
have  opened  great  fields  for  the  useful  application  of  national 
energy.  This  immense  territory  of  ours,  stretching  from 
ocean  to  ocean,  and  for  the  most  part  but  imperfectly  de- 


292  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

veloped  and  sparsely  settled,  affords  a  broad  field  for  the 
beneficent  application  of  the  richest  national  forces  during 
an  indefinite  period.  There  is  no  department  of  national 
activity  in  which  we  could  not  advantageously  put  forth 
much  more  force  than  we  now  expend ;  and  there  are  great 
fields  which  we  have  never  cultivated  at  all.  As  examples, 
I  may  mention  the  post-office,  national  sanitation,  public 
works,  and  education.  Although  great  improvements  have 
been  made  during  the  past  fifty  years  in  the  collection  and 
delivery  of  mail  matter,  much  still  remains  to  be  done  both 
in  city  and  country,  and  particularly  in  the  country.  In 
the  mail  facilities  secured  to  our  people,  we  are  far  behind 
several  European  governments,  whereas  we  ought  to  be  far 
in  advance  of  every  European  government  except  Switzer 
land,  since  the  rapid  interchange  of  ideas,  and  the  promotion 
of  family,  friendly,  and  commercial  intercourse,  are  of  more 
importance  to  a  democracy  than  to  any  other  form  of 
political  society.  Our  national  government  takes  very  little 
pains  about  the  sanitation  of  the  country,  or  its  deliver 
ance  from  injurious  insects  and  parasites;  yet  these  are 
matters  of  gravest  interest,  with  which  only  the  general 
government  can  deal,  because  action  by  separate  States  or 
cities  is  necessarily  ineffectual.  To  fight  pestilences  needs 
quite  as  much  energy,  skill,  and  courage  as  to  carry  on 
war ;  indeed,  the  foes  are  more  insidious  and  awful,  and 
the  means  of  resistance  less  obvious.  On  the  average  and 
the  large  scale,  the  professions  which  heal  and  prevent  dis 
ease,  and  mitigate  suffering,  call  for  much  more  ability, 
constancy,  and  devotion  than  the  professions  which  inflict 
wounds  and  death  and  all  sorts  of  human  misery.  Our 
government  has  never  touched  the  important  subject  of 
national  roads,  by  which  I  mean  not  railroads,  but  common 
highways;  yet  here  is  a  great  subject  for  beneficent  action 
through  government,  in  which  we  need  only  go  for  our 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION     293 

lessons  to  little  republican  Switzerland.  Inundations  and 
droughts  are  great  enemies  of  the  human  race,  against  which 
government  ought  to  create  defenses,  because  private  enter 
prise  cannot  cope  with  such  wide-spreading  evils.  Popular 
education  is  another  great  field  in  which  public  activity 
should  be  indefinitely  enlarged,  not  so  much  through  the 
action  of  the  Federal  government, — though  even  there  a 
much  more  effective  supervision  should  be  provided  than 
now  exists, — but  through  the  action  of  States,  cities,  and 
towns.  We  have  hardly  begun  to  apprehend  the  fundamental 
necessity  and  infinite  value  of  public  education,  or  to  ap 
preciate  the  immense  advantages  to  be  derived  from  addi 
tional  expenditure  for  it.  What  prodigious  possibilities 
of  improvement  are  suggested  by  the  single  statement  that 
the  average  annual  expenditure  for  the  schooling  of  a  child 
in  the  United  States  is  only  about  eighteen  dollars!  Here 
is  a  cause  which  requires  from  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
men  and  women  keen  intelligence,  hearty  devotion  to  duty, 
and  a  steady  uplifting  and  advancement  of  all  its  standards 
and  ideals.  The  system  of  public  instruction  should  em 
body  for  coming  generations  all  the  virtues  of  the  mediaeval 
church.  It  should  stand  for  the  brotherhood  and  unity  of 
all  classes  and  conditions;  it  should  exalt  the  joys  of  the 
intellectual  life  above  all  material  delights;  and  it  should 
produce  the  best  constituted  and  most  wisely  directed  intel 
lectual  and  moral  host  that  the  world  has  seen.  In  view 
of  such  unutilized  opportunities  as  these  for  the  beneficent 
application  of  great  public  forces,  does  it  not  seem  monstrous 
that  war  should  be  advocated  on  the  ground  that  it  gives 
occasion  for  rallying  and  using  the  national  energies  ? 

The  second  eminent  contribution  which  the  United  States 
have  made  to  civilization  is  their  thorough  acceptance,  in 
theory  and  practice,  of  the  widest  religious  toleration.  As 
a  means  of  suppressing  individual  liberty,  the  collective 


294  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

authority  of  the  Church,  when  elaborately  organized  in 
a  hierarchy  directed  by  one  head  and  absolutely  devoted 
in  every  rank  to  its  service,  comes  next  in  proved  efficiency 
to  that  concentration  of  powers  in  government  which  en 
ables  it  to  carry  on  war  effectively.  The  Western  Christian 
Church,  organized  under  the  Bishop  of  Rome,  acquired, 
during  the  middle  ages,  a  centralized  authority  which  quite 
overrode  both  the  temporal  ruler  and  the  rising  spirit  of 
nationality.  For  a  time  Christian  Church  and  Christian 
States  acted  together,  just  as  in  Egypt,  during  many  earlier 
centuries,  the  great  powers  of  civil  and  religious  rule  had 
been  united.  The  Crusades  marked  the  climax  of  the 
power  of  the  Church.  Thereafter,  Church  and  State  were 
often  in  conflict;  and  during  this  prolonged  conflict  the 
seeds  of  liberty  were  planted,  took  root,  and  made  some 
sturdy  growth.  We  can  see  now,  as  we  look  back  on  the 
history  of  Europe,  how  fortunate  it  was  that  the  coloniza 
tion  of  North  America  by  Europeans  was  deferred  until 
after  the  period  of  the  Reformation,  and  especially  until 
after  the  Elizabethan  period  in  England,  the  Luther  period 
in  Germany,  and  the  splendid  struggle  of  the  Dutch  for 
liberty  in  Holland.  The  founders  of  New  England  and 
New  York  were  men  who  had  imbibed  the  principles  of 
resistance  both  to  arbitrary  civil  power  and  to  universal 
ecclesiastical  authority.  Hence  it  came  about  that  within 
the  territory  now  covered  by  the  United  States  no  single 
ecclesiastical  organization  ever  obtained  a  wide  and  op 
pressive  control,  and  that  in  different  parts  of  this  great 
region  churches  very  unlike  in  doctrine  and  organization 
were  almost  simultaneously  established.  It  has  been  an 
inevitable  consequence  of  this  condition  of  things  that  the 
Church,  as  a  whole,  in  the  United  States  has  not  been  an 
effective  opponent  of  any  form  of  human  rights.  For  gen 
erations  it  has  been  divided  into  numerous  sects  and  de- 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION     295 

nominations,  no  one  of  which  has  been  able  to  claim  more 
than  a  tenth  of  the  population  as  its  adherents;  and  the 
practices  of  these  numerous  denominations  have  been  pro 
foundly  modified  by  political  theories  and  practices,  and 
by  social  customs  natural  to  new  communities  formed  under 
the  prevailing  conditions  of  free  intercourse  and  rapid 
growth.  The  constitutional  prohibition  of  religious  tests 
as  qualifications  for  office  gave  the  United  States  the  leader 
ship  among  the  nations  in  dissociating  theological  opinions 
and  political  rights.  No  one  denomination  or  ecclesiastical 
organization  in  the  United  States  has  held  great  properties, 
or  has  had  the  means  of  conducting  its  ritual  with  costly 
pomp  or  its  charitable  works  with  imposing  liberality.  No 
splendid  architectural  exhibitions  of  Church  power  have 
interested  or  overawed  the  population.  On  the  contrary, 
there  has  prevailed  in  general  a  great  simplicity  in  public 
worship,  until  very  recent  years.  Some  splendors  have 
been  lately  developed  by  religious  bodies  in  the  great  cities ; 
but  these  splendors  and  luxuries  have  been  almost  simulta 
neously  exhibited  by  religious  bodies  of  very  different, 
not  to  say  opposite,  kinds.  Thus,  in  New  York  city,  the 
Jews,  the  Greek  Church,  the  Catholics,  and  the  Episco 
palians  have  all  erected,  or  undertaken  to  erect,  magnifi 
cent  edifices.  But  these  recent  demonstrations  of  wealth 
and  zeal  are  so  distributed  among  differing  religious  organi 
zations  that  they  cannot  be  imagined  to  indicate  a  coming 
centralization  of  ecclesiastical  influence  adverse  to  indi 
vidual  liberty. 

In  the  United  States,  the  great  principle  of  religious  tol 
eration  is  better  understood  and  more  firmly  established 
than  in  any  other  nation  of  the  earth.  It  is  not  only 
embodied  in  legislation,  but  also  completely  recognized  in 
the  habits  and  customs  of  good  society.  Elsewhere  it  may 
be  a  long  road  from  legal  to  social  recognition  of  religious 


296  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

liberty,  as  the  example  of  England  shows.  This  recognition 
alone  would  mean,  to  any  competent  student  of  history,  that 
the  United  States  had  made  an  unexampled  contribution 
to  the  reconciliation  of  just  governmental  power  with  just 
freedom  for  the  individual,  inasmuch  as  the  partial  estab 
lishment  of  religious  toleration  has  been  the  main  work  of 
civilization  during  the  past  four  centuries.  In  view  of  this 
characteristic  and  infinitely  beneficent  contribution  to  human 
happiness  and  progress,  how  pitiable  seem  the  temporary 
outbursts  of  bigotry  and  fanaticism  which  have  occasion 
ally  marred  the  fair  record  of  our  country  in  regard  to 
religious  toleration !  If  anyone  imagines  that  this  American 
contribution  to  civilization  is  no  longer  important, — that 
the  victory  for  toleration  has  been  already  won, — let  him 
recall  the  fact  that  the  last  years  of  the  nineteenth  century 
have  witnessed  two  horrible  religious  persecutions,  one  by 
a  Christian  nation,  the  ether  by  a  Moslem — one,  of  the  Jews 
by  Russia,  and  the  other,  of  the  Armenians  by  Turkey. 

The  third  characteristic  contribution  which  the  United 
States  have  made  to  civilization  has  been  the  safe  develop 
ment  of  a  manhood  suffrage  nearly  universal.  The  expe 
rience  of  the  United  States  has  brought  out  several  princi 
ples  with  regard  to  the  suffrage  which  have  not  been  clearly 
apprehended  by  some  eminent  political  philosophers.  In 
the  first  place,  American  experience  has  demonstrated  the 
advantages  of  a  gradual  approach  to  universal  suffrage, 
over  a  sudden  leap.  Universal  suffrage  is  not  the  first 
and  only  means  of  attaining  democratic  government ;  rather, 
it  is  the  ultimate  goal  of  successful  democracy.  It  is  not 
a  specific  for  the  cure  of  all  political  ills;  on  the  contrary, 
it  may  itself  easily  be  the  source  of  great  political  evils. 
The  people  of  the  United  States  feel  its  dangers  to-day. 
When  constituencies  are  large,  it  aggravates  the  well-known 
difficulties  of  party  government;  so  that  many  of  the  ills 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION    297 

which  threaten  democratic  communities  at  this  moment, 
whether  in  Europe  or  America,  proceed  from  the  break 
down  of  party  government  rather  than  from  failures  of 
universal  suffrage.  The  methods  of  party  government  were 
elaborated  where  suffrage  was  limited  and  constituencies 
were  small.  Manhood  suffrage  has  not  worked  perfectly 
well  in  the  United  States,  or  in  any  other  nation  where  it 
has  been  adopted,  and  it  is  not  likely  very  soon  to  work 
perfectly  anywhere.  It  is  like  freedom  of  the  will  for  the 
individual — the  only  atmosphere  in  which  virtue  can  grow, 
but  an  atmosphere  in  which  sin  can  also  grow.  Like  free 
dom  of  the  will,  it  needs  to  be  surrounded  with  checks  and 
safeguards,  particularly  in  the  childhood  of  the  nation ;  but, 
like  freedom  of  the  will,  it  is  the  supreme  good,  the  goal 
of  perfected  democracy.  Secondly,  like  freedom  of  the 
will,  universal  suffrage  has  an  educational  effect,  which 
has  been  mentioned  by  many  writers,  but  has  seldom  been 
clearly  apprehended  or  adequately  described.  This  edu 
cational  effect  is  produced  in  two  ways :  In  the  first  place, 
the  combination  of  individual  freedom  with  social  mobility, 
which  a  wide  suffrage  tends  to  produce,  permits  the  capable 
to  rise  through  all  grades  of  society,  even  within  a  single 
generation ;  and  this  freedom  to  rise  is  intensely  stimulating 
to  personal  ambition.  Thus  every  capable  American,  from 
youth  to  age,  is  bent  on  bettering  himself  and  his  con 
dition.  Nothing  can  be  more  striking  than  the  contrast 
between  the  mental  condition  of  an  average  American 
belonging  to  the  laborious  classes,  but  conscious  that  he 
can  rise  to  the  top  of  the  social  scale,  and  that  of  a  Euro 
pean  mechanic,  peasant,  or  tradesman,  who  knows  that  he 
cannot  rise  out  of  his  class,  and  is  content  with  his  heredi 
tary  classification.  The  state  of  mind  of  the  American 
prompts  to  constant  struggle  for  self-improvement  and  the 
acquisition  of  all  sorts  of  property  and  power.  In  the 


298  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

second  place,  it  is  a  direct  effect  of  a  broad  suffrage  that 
the  voters  become  periodically  interested  in  the  discussion 
of  grave  public  problems,  which  carry  their  minds  away 
from  the  routine  of  their  daily  labor  and  household  experi 
ence  out  into  larger  fields.  The  instrumentalities  of  this 
prolonged  education  have  been  multiplied  and  improved 
enormously  within  the  last  fifty  years.  In  no  field  of  hu 
man  endeavor  have  the  fruits  of  the  introduction  of  steam 
and  electrical  power  been  more  striking  than  in  the  methods 
of  reaching  multitudes  of  people  with  instructive  narratives, 
expositions,  and  arguments.  The  multiplication  of  news 
papers,  magazines,  and  books  is  only  one  of  the  immense 
developments  in  the  means  of  reaching  the  people.  The 
advocates  of  any  public  cause  now  have  it  in  their  power 
to  provide  hundreds  of  newspapers  with  the  same  copy, 
or  the  same  plates,  for  simultaneous  issue.  The  mails  pro 
vide  the  means  of  circulating  millions  of  leaflets  and 
pamphlets.  The  interest  in  the  minds  of  the  people  which 
prompts  to  the  reading  of  these  multiplied  communications 
comes  from  the  frequently  recurring  elections.  The  more 
difficult  the  intellectual  problem  presented  in  any  given 
election,  the  more  educative  the  effect  of  the  discussion. 
Many  modern  industrial  and  financial  problems  are  ex 
tremely  difficult,  even  for  highly-educated  men.  As  sub 
jects  of  earnest  thought  and  discussion  on  the  farm,  and 
in  the  work-shop,  factory,  rolling-mill,  and  mine,  they  sup 
ply  a  mental  training  for  millions  of  adults,  the  like  of 
which  has  never  before  been  seen  in  the  world. 

In  these  discussions,  it  is  not  only  the  receptive  masses 
that  are  benefited ;  the  classes  that  supply  the  appeals  to 
the  masses  are  also  benefited  in  a  high  degree.  There  is 
no  better  mental  exercise  for  the  most  highly  trained  man 
than  the  effort  to  expound  a  difficult  subject  in  so  clear  a 
way  that  the  untrained  man  can  understand  it.  In  a  repub- 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION    299 

lie  in  which  the  final  appeal  is  to  manhood  suffrage,  the  edu 
cated  minority  of  the  people  is  constantly  stimulated  to 
exertion,  by  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  as  well  as  by 
love  of  country.  They  see  dangers  in  proposals  made  to 
universal  suffrage,  and  they  must  exert  themselves  to  ward 
off  those  dangers.  The  position  of  the  educated  and  well- 
to-do  classes  is  a  thoroughly  wholesome  one  in  this  respect : 
they  cannot  depend  for  the  preservation  of  their  advan 
tages  on  land-owning,  hereditary  privilege,  or  any  legisla 
tion  not  equally  applicable  to  the  poorest  and  humblest 
citizen.  They  must  maintain  their  superiority  by  being 
superior.  They  cannot  live  in  a  too  safe  corner. 

I  touch  here  on  a  misconception  which  underlies  much 
of  the  criticism  of  universal  suffrage.  It  is  commonly  said 
that  the  rule  of  the  majority  must  be  the  rule  of  the  most 
ignorant  and  incapable,  the  multitude  being  necessarily  un- 
instructed  as  to  taxation,  public  finance,  and  foreign  rela 
tions,  and  untrained  to  active  thought  on  such  difficult 
subjects.  Now,  universal  suffrage  is  merely  a  convention 
as  to  where  the  last  appeal  shall  lie  for  the  decision  of 
public  questions;  and  it  is  the  rule  of  the  majority  only  in 
this  sense.  The  educated  classes  are  undoubtedly  a  mi 
nority;  but  it  is  not  safe  to  assume  that  they  monopolize 
the  good  sense  of  the  community.  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
very  clear  that  native  good  judgment  and  good  feeling  are 
not  proportional  to  education,  and  that  among  a  multitude 
of  men  who  have  only  an  elementary  education,  a  large 
proportion  will  possess  both  good  judgment  and  good  feel 
ing.  Indeed,  persons  who  can  neither  read  nor  write  may 
possess  a  large  share  of  both,  as  is  constantly  seen  in 
regions  where  the  opportunities  for  education  in  childhood 
have  been  scanty  or  inaccessible.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  the  cultivated  classes,  under  a  regime  of  universal 
suffrage,  are  not  going  to  try  to  make  their  cultivation 


300  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

felt  in  the  discussion  and  disposal  of  public  questions.  Any 
result  under  universal  suffrage  is  a  complex  effect  of  the 
discussion  of  the  public  question  in  hand  by  the  educated 
classes  in  the  presence  of  the  comparatively  uneducated, 
when  a  majority  of  both  classes  taken  together  is  ulti 
mately  to  settle  the  question.  In  practice,  both  classes  divide 
on  almost  every  issue.  But,  in  any  case,  if  the  educated 
classes  cannot  hold  their  own  with  the  uneducated,  by 
means  of  their  superior  physical,  mental,  and  moral  quali 
ties,  they  are  obviously  unfit  to  lead  society.  With  educa 
tion  should  come  better  powers  of  argument  and  persua 
sion,  a  stricter  sense  of  honor,  and  a  greater  general  effect 
iveness.  With  these  advantages,  the  educated  classes  must 
undoubtedly  appeal  to  the  less  educated,  and  try  to  convert 
them  to  their  way  of  thinking;  but  this  is  a  process  which 
is  good  for  both  sets  of  people.  Indeed,  it  is  the  best  pos 
sible  process  for  the  training  of  freemen,  educated  or  un 
educated,  rich  or  poor. 

It  is  often  assumed  that  the  educated  classes  become 
impotent  in  a  democracy,  because  the  representatives  of 
those  classes  are  not  exclusively  chosen  to  public  office. 
This  argument  is  a  very  fallacious  one.  It  assumes  that 
the  public  offices  are  the  places  of  greatest  influence; 
whereas,  in  the  United  States,  at  least,  that  is  conspicu 
ously  not  the  case.  In  a  democracy,  it  is  important  to  dis 
criminate  influence  from  authority.  Rulers  and  magistrates 
may  or  may  not  be  persons  of  influence ;  but  many  persons 
of  influence  never  become  rulers,  magistrates,  or  represen 
tatives  in  parliaments  or -legislatures.  The  complex  indus 
tries  of  a  modern  state,  and  its  innumerable  corporation 
services,  offer  great  fields  for  administrative  talent  which 
were  entirely  unknown  to  preceding  generations ;  and  these 
new  activities  attract  many  ambitious  and  capable  men  more 
strongly  than  the  public  service.  These  men  are  not  on 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION    301 

that  account  lost  to  their  country  or  to  society.  The  present 
generation  has  wholly  escaped  from  the  conditions  of  earlier 
centuries,  when  able  men  who  were  not  great  land-owners 
had  but  three  outlets  for  their  ambition — the  army,  the 
church,  or  the  national  civil  service.  The  national  service, 
whether  in  an  empire,  a  limited  monarchy,  or  a  republic, 
is  now  only  one  of  many  fields  which  offer  to  able  and 
patriotic  men  an  honorable  and  successful  career.  Indeed, 
legislation  and  public  administration  necessarily  have  a  very 
second-hand  quality;  and  more  and  more  legislators  and 
administrators  become  dependent  on  the  researches  of 
scholars,  men  of  science,  and  historians,  and  follow  in  the 
footsteps  of  inventors,  economists,  and  political  philoso 
phers.  Political  leaders  are  very  seldom  leaders  of  thought ; 
they  are  generally  trying  to  induce  masses  of  men  to  act 
on  principles  thought  out  long  before.  Their  skill  is  in 
the  selection  of  practicable  approximations  to  the  ideal ; 
their  arts  are  arts  of  exposition  and  persuasion ;  their  honor 
comes  from  fidelity  Bunder  trying  circumstances  to  familiar 
principles  of  public  duty.  The  real  leaders  of  American 
thought  in  this  century  have  been  preachers,  teachers,  jur 
ists,  seers,  and  poets.  While  it  is  of  the  highest  importance, 
under  any  form  of  government,  that  the  public  servants 
should  be  men  of  intelligence,  education,  and  honor,  it  is 
no  objection  to  any  given  form,  that  under  it  large  numbers 
of  educated  and  honorable  citizens  have  no  connection  with 
the  public  service. 

Well-to-do  Europeans,  when  reasoning  about  the  work 
ing  of  democracy,  often  assume  that  under  any  government 
the  property-holders  are  synonymous  with  the  intelligent 
and  educated  class.  That  is  not  the  case  in  the  American 
democracy.  Anyone  who  has  been  connected  with  a  large 
American  university  can  testify  that  democratic  institutions 
produce  plenty  of  rich  people  who  are  not  educated  and 


302  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

plenty  of  educated  people  who  are  not  rich,  just  as  mediae 
val  society  produced  illiterate  nobles  and  cultivated  monks. 

Persons  who  object  to  manhood  suffrage  as  the  last  resort 
for  the  settlement  of  public  questions  are  bound  to  show 
where,  in  all  the  world,  a  juster  or  more  practicable  regu 
lation  or  convention  has  been  arrived  at.  The  objectors 
ought  at  least  to  indicate  where  the  ultimate  decision  should, 
in  their  judgment,  rest — as,  for  example,  with  the  land 
owners,  or  the  property-holders,  or  the  graduates  of  sec 
ondary  schools,  or  the  professional  classes.  He  would  be 
a  bold  political  philosopher  who,  in  these  days,  should  pro 
pose  that  the  ultimate  tribunal  should  be  constituted  in 
any  of  these  ways.  All  the  experience  of  the  civilized  world 
fails  to  indicate  a  safe  personage,  a  safe  class,  or  a  safe 
minority,  with  which  to  deposit  this  power  of  ultimate  deci 
sion.  On  the  contrary,  the  experience  of  civilization  indi 
cates  that  no  select  person  or  class  can  be  trusted  with 
that  power,  no  matter  what  the  principle  of  selection.  The 
convention  that  the  majority  of  males  shall  decide  public 
questions  has  obviously  great  recommendations.  It  is  ap 
parently  fairer  than  the  rule  of  any  minority,  and  it  is  sure 
to  be  supported  by  an  adequate  physical  force.  Moreover, 
its  decisions  are  likely  to  enforce  themselves.  Even  in  mat 
ters  of  doubtful  prognostication,  the  fact  that  a  majority 
of  the  males  do  the  prophesying  tends  to  the  fulfillment  of 
the  prophecy.  At  any  rate,  the  adoption  or  partial  adoption 
of  universal  male  suffrage  by  several  civilized  nations  is 
coincident  with  unexampled  ameliorations  in  the  condition 
of  the  least  fortunate  and  most  numerous  classes  of  the 
population.  To  this  general  amelioration  many  causes  have 
doubtless  contributed;  but  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that 
the  acquisition  of  the  power  which  comes  with  votes  has 
had  something  to  do  with  it. 

Timid  or  conservative  people  often  stand  aghast  at  the 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION    303 

possible  directions  of  democratic  desire,  or  at  some  of  the 
predicted  results  of  democratic  rule ;  but  meantime  the  actual 
experience  of  the  American  democracy  proves:  i,  that 
property  has  never  been  safer  under  any  form  of  gov 
ernment  ;  2,  that  no  people  have  ever  welcomed  so  ardently 
new  machinery,  and  new  inventions  generally;  3,  that  reli 
gious  toleration  was  never  carried  so  far,  and  never  so  uni 
versally  accepted;  4,  that  nowhere  have  the  power  and 
disposition  to  read  been  so  general;  5,  that  nowhere  has 
governmental  power  been  more  adequate,  or  more  freely 
exercised,  to  levy  and  collect  taxes,  to  raise  armies  and  to 
disband  them,  to  maintain  public  order,  and  to  pay  off  great 
public  debts — national,  State,  and  town ;  6,  that  nowhere 
have  property  and  well-being  been  so  widely  diffused ;  and 
7,  that  no  form  of  government  ever  inspired  greater  affec 
tion  and  loyalty,  or  prompted  to  greater  personal  sacrifices 
in  supreme  moments.  In  view  of  these  solid  facts,  specula 
tions  as  to  what  universal  suffrage  would  have  done  in 
the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries,  or  may  do  in  the 
twentieth,  seem  futile  indeed.  The  most  civilized  nations  of 
the  world  have  all  either  adopted  this  final  appeal  to  man 
hood  suffrage,  or  they  are  approaching  that  adoption  by 
rapid  stages.  The  United  States,  having  no  customs  or 
traditions  of  an  opposite  sort  to  overcome,  have  led  the  na 
tions  in  this  direction,  and  have  had  the  honor  of  devising, 
as  a  result  of  practical  experience,  the  best  safeguards  for 
universal  suffrage,  safeguards  which,  in  the  main,  are 
intended  to  prevent  hasty  public  action,  or  action  based 
on  sudden  discontents  or  temporary  spasms  of  public  feel 
ing.  These  checks  are  intended  to  give  time  for  discussion 
and  deliberation,  or,  in  other  words,  to  secure  the  enlight 
enment  of  the  voters  before  the  vote.  If,  under  new  condi 
tions,  existing  safeguards  prove  insufficient,  the  only  wise 
course  is  to  devise  new  safeguards. 


304  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

The  United  States  have  made  to  civilization  a  fourth 
contribution  of  a  very  hopeful  sort,  to  which  public  atten 
tion  needs  to  •  be  directed,  lest  temporary  evils  connected 
therewith  should  prevent  the  continuation  of  this  beneficent 
action.  The  United  States  have  furnished  a  demonstration 
that  people  belonging  to  a  great  variety  of  races  or  nations 
are,  under  favorable  circumstances,  fit  for  political  free 
dom.  It  is  the  fashion  to  attribute  to  the  enormous  immi 
gration  of  the  last  fifty  years  some  of  the  failures  of  the 
American  political  system,  and  particularly  the  American 
failure  in  municipal  government,  and  the  introduction  in 
a  few  States  of  the  rule  of  the  irresponsible  party  fore 
men  known  as  "  bosses."  Impatient  of  these  evils,  and 
hastily  accepting  this  improbable  explanation  of  them,  some 
people  wish  to  depart  from  the  American  policy  of  wel 
coming  immigrants.  In  two  respects  the  absorption  of 
large  numbers  of  immigrants  from  many  nations  into  the 
American  commonwealth  has  been  of  great  service  to  man 
kind.  In  the  first  place,  it  has  demonstrated  that  people 
who  at  home  have  been  subject  to  every  sort  of  aristo 
cratic  or  despotic  or  military  oppression  become  within  less 
than  a  generation  serviceable  citizens  of  a  republic;  and, 
in  the  second  place,  the  United  States  have  thus  educated 
to  freedom  many  millions  of  men.  Furthermore,  the  com 
paratively  high  degree  of  happiness  and  prosperity  enjoyed 
by  the  people  of  the  United  States  has  been  brought  home 
to  multitudes  in  Europe  by  friends  and  relatives  who  have 
emigrated  to  this  country,  and  has  commended  free  insti 
tutions  to  them  in  the  best  possible  way.  This  is  a  legiti 
mate  propaganda  vastly  more  effective  than  any  annexation 
or  conquest  of  unwilling  people,  or  of  people  unprepared 
for  liberty. 

It  is  a  great  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  process  of 
assimilating  foreigners  began  in  this  century.  The  eight- 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION     305 

eenth  century  provided  the  colonies  with  a  great  mixture  of 
peoples,  although  the  English  race  predominated  then,  as 
now.  When  the  Revolution  broke  out,  there  were  already 
English,  Irish,  Scotch,  Dutch,  Germans,  French,  Portu 
guese,  and  Swedes  in  the  colonies.  The  French  were,  to  be 
sure,  in  small  proportion,  and  were  almost  exclusively  Hu 
guenot  refugees,  but  they  were  a  valuable  element  in  the 
population.  The  Germans  were  well  diffused,  having  estab 
lished  themselves  in  New  York,  Pennsylvania,  Virginia, 
and  Georgia.  The  Scotch  were  scattered  through  all  the 
colonies.  Pennsylvania,  especially,  was  inhabited  by  an  ex 
traordinary  mixture  of  nationalities  and  religions.  Since 
steam-navigation  on  the  Atlantic  and  railroad  transportation 
on  the  North  American  continent  became  cheap  and  easy, 
the  tide  of  immigration  has  greatly  increased;  but  it  is 
very  doubtful  if  the  amount  of  assimilation  going  on  in 
the  nineteenth  century  has  been  any  larger,  in  proportion 
to  the  population  and  wealth  of  the  country,  than  it  was 
in  the  eighteenth.  The  main  difference  in  the  assimilation 
going  on  in  the  two  centuries  is  this,  that  in  the  eighteenth 
century  the  newcomers  were  almost  all  Protestants,  while  in 
the  nineteenth  century  a  considerable  proportion  have  been 
Catholics.  One  result,  however,  of  the  importation  of  large 
numbers  of  Catholics  into  the  United  States  has  been  a 
profound  modification  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  in 
regard  to  the  manners  and  customs  of  both  the  clergy  and 
the  laity,  the  scope  of  the  authority  of  the  priest,  and  the 
attitude  of  the  Catholic  Church  toward  public  education. 
This  American  modification  of  the  Roman  Church  has  re 
acted  strongly  on  the  Church  in  Europe. 

Another  great  contribution  to  civilization  made  by  the 
United  States  is  the  diffusion  of  material  well-being  among 
the  population.  No  country  in  the  world  approaches  the 
United  States  in  this  respect.  It  is  seen  in  that  diffused 


306  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

elementary  education  which  implants  for  life  a  habit  of 
reading,  and  in  the  habitual  optimism  which  characterizes 
the  common  people.  It  is  seen  in  the  housing  of  the  people 
and  of  their  domestic  animals,  in  the  comparative  costliness 
of  their  food,  clothing,  and  household  furniture,  in  their 
implements,  vehicles,  and  means  of  transportation,  and  in 
the  substitution,  on  a  prodigious  scale,  of  the  work  of 
machinery  for  the  work  of  men's  hands.  This  last  item 
in  American  well-being  is  quite  as  striking  in  agriculture, 
mining,  and  fishing,  as  it  is  in  manufactures.  The  social 
effects  of  the  manufacture  of  power,  and  of  the  discovery 
of  means  of  putting  that  power  just  where  it  is  wanted, 
have  been  more  striking  in  the  United  States  than  anywhere 
else.  Manufactured  and  distributed  power  needs  intelli 
gence  to  direct  it:  the  bicycle  is  a  blind  horse,  and  must  be 
steered  at  every  instant ;  somebody  must  show  a  steam-drill 
where  to  strike  and  how  deep  to  go.  So  far  as  men  and 
women  can  substitute  for  the  direct  expenditure  of  muscular 
strength  the  more  intelligent  effort  of  designing,  tending, 
and  guiding  machines,  they  win  promotion  in  the  scale  of 
being,  and  make  their  lives  more  interesting  as  well  as  more 
productive.  It  is  in  the  invention  of  machinery  for  pro 
ducing  and  distributing  power,  and  at  once  economizing 
and  elevating  human  labor,  that  American  ingenuity  has 
been  most  conspicuously  manifested.  The  high  price  of 
labor  in  a  sparsely-settled  country  has  had  something  to  do 
with  this  striking  result;  but  the  genius  of  the  people  and 
of  their  government  has  had  much  more  to  do  with  it.  As 
proof  of  the  general  proposition,  it  suffices  merely  to  men 
tion  the  telegraph  and  telephone,  the  sewing-machine,  the 
cotton-gin,  the  mower,  reaper,  and  threshing-machine, 
the  dish-washing  machine,  the  river  steamboat,  the  sleeping- 
car,  the  boot  and  shoe  machinery,  and  the  watch 
machinery.  The  ultimate  effects  of  these  and  kindred  in- 


FIVE  AMERICAN  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  CIVILIZATION     307 

ventions  are  quite  as  much  intellectual  as  physical,  and 
they  are  developing  and  increasing  with  a  portentous  ra 
pidity  which  sometimes  suggests  a  doubt  whether  the  bodily 
forces  of  men  and  women  are  adequate  to  resist  the  new 
mental  strains  brought  upon  them.  However  this  may  prove 
to  be  in  the  future,  the  clear  result  in  the  present  is  an 
unexampled  diffusion  of  well-being  in  the  United  States. 

These  five  contributions  to  civilization — peace-keeping, 
religious  toleration,  the  development  of  manhood  suffrage, 
the  welcoming  of  newcomers,  and  the  diffusion  of  well- 
being — I  hold  to  have  been  eminently  characteristic  of  our 
country,  and  so  important  that,  in  spite  of  the  qualifica 
tions  and  deductions  which  every  candid  citizen  would 
admit  with  regard  to  every  one  of  them,  they  will  ever  be 
held  in  the  grateful  remembrance  of  mankind.  They  are 
reasonable  grounds  for  a  steady,  glowing  patriotism.  They 
have  had  much  to  do,  both  as  causes  and  as  effects,  with 
the  material  prosperity  of  the  United  States ;  but  they  are  all 
five  essentially  moral  contributions,  being  triumphs  of  rea 
son,  enterprise,  courage,  faith,  and  justice,  over  passion, 
selfishness,  inertness,  timidity,  and  distrust..  Beneath  each 
one  of  these  developments  there  lies  a  strong  ethical  senti 
ment,  a  strenuous  moral  and  social  purpose.  It  is  for  such 
work  that  multitudinous  democracies  are  fit. 

In  regard  to  all  five  of  these  contributions,  the  charac 
teristic  policy  of  our  country  has  been  from  time  to  time 
threatened  with  reversal — is  even  now  so  threatened.  It  is 
for  true  patriots  to  insist  on  the  maintenance  of  these  his 
toric  purposes  and  policies  of  the  people  of  the  United  States. 
Our  country's  future  perils,  whether  already  visible  or  still 
unimagined,  are  to  be  met  with  courage  and  constancy 
founded  firmly  on  these  popular  achievements  in  the  past. 


I  TALK  OF  DREAMS 
W.  D.  HOWELLS 

BUT  it  is  mostly  my  own  dreams  I  talk  of,  and  that  will 
somewhat  excuse  me  for  talking  of  dreams  at  all.  Everyone 
knows  how  delightful  the  dreams  are  that  one  dreams  one's 
self,  and  how  insipid  the  dreams  of  others  are.  I  had  an 
illustration  of  the  fact,  not  many  evenings  ago,  when  a 
company  of  us  got  telling  dreams.  I  had  by  far  the  best 
dreams  of  any;  to  be  quite  frank,  mine  were  the  only 
dreams  worth  listening  to ;  they  were  richly  imaginative, 
delicately  fantastic,  exquisitely  whimsical,  and  humorous  in 
the  last  degree ;  and  I  wondered  that  when  the  rest  could 
have  listened  to  them  they  were  always  eager  to  cut  in  with 
some  silly,  senseless,  tasteless  thing  that  made  me  sorry 
and  ashamed  for  them.  I  shall  not  be  going  too  far  if  I 
say  that  it  was  on  their  part  the  grossest  betrayal  of  vanity 
that  I  ever  witnessed. 

But  the  egotism  of  some  people  concerning  their  dreams 
is  almost  incredible.  They  will  come  dow^n  to  breakfast  and 
bore  everybody  with  a  recital  of  the  nonsense  that  has 
passed  through  their  brains  in  sleep,  as  if  they  were  not  bad 
enough  when  they  were  awake ;  they  will  not  spare  the 
slightest  detail ;  and  if,  by  the  mercy  of  Heaven,  they  have 
forgotten  something,  they  will  be  sure  to  recollect  it,  and  go 
back  and  give  it  all  over  again  with  added  circumstance. 
Such  people  do  not  reflect  that  there  is  something  so  purely 
and  intensely  personal  in  dreams  that  they  can  rarely  interest 
anyone  but  the  dreamer,  and  that  to  the  dearest  friend,  the, 

308 


I  TALK  OF  DREAMS  309 

closest  relation  or  connection,  they  can  seldom  be  otherwise 
than  tedious  and  impertinent.  The  habit  husbands  and 
wives  have  of  making  each  other  listen  to  their  dreams  is 
especially  cruel.  They  have  each  other  quite  helpless,  and 
for  this  reason  they  should  all  the  more  carefully  guard 
themselves  from  abusing  their  advantage.  Parents  should 
not  afflict  their  offspring  with  the  rehearsal  of  their  mental 
maunderings  in  sleep,  and  children  should  learn  that  one 
of  the  first  duties  a  child  owes  its  parents  is  to  spare  them 
the  anguish  of  hearing  what  it  has  dreamed  about  over 
night.  A  like  forbearance  in  regard  to  the  community  at 
large  should  be  taught  as  the  first  trait  of  good  manners 
in  the  public  schools,  if  we  ever  come  to  teach  good  man 
ners  there. 


Certain  exceptional  dreams,  however,  are  so  imperatively 
significant,  so  vitally  important,  that  it  would  be  wrong  to 
withhold  them  from  the  knowledge  of  those  who  happened 
not  to  dream  them,  and  I  feel  some  such  quality  in  my  own' 
dreams  so  strongly  that  I  could  scarcely  forgive  myself  if 
I  did  not,  however  briefly,  impart  them.  It  was  only  the 
last  week,  for  instance,  that  I  found  myself  one  night  in 
the  company  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  the  great  Duke, 
the  Iron  one,  in  fact ;  and  after  a  few  moments  of  agreeable 
conversation  on  topics  of  interest  among  gentlemen,  his 
Grace  said  that  now,  if  I  pleased,  he  would  like  a  couple 
of  those  towels.  We  had  not  been  speaking  of  towels,  that 
I  remember,  but  it  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world  that  he  should  mention  them  in  the  connection,  what 
ever  it  was,  and  I  went  at  once  to  get  them  for  him.  At 
the  place  where  they  gave  out  towels,  and  where  I  found 
some  very  civil  people,  they  told  me  that  what  I  wanted 
was  not  towels,  and  they  gave  me  instead  two  bath-gowns, 


3io  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

of  rather  scanty  measure,  butternut  in  color  and  Turkish  in 
texture.  The  garments  made  somehow  a  very  strong  im 
pression  upon  me,  so  that  I  could  draw  them  now,  if  I  could 
draw  anything,  as  they  looked  when  they  were  held  up  to 
me.  At  the  same  moment,  for  no  reason  that  I  can  allege, 
I  passed  from  a  social  to  a  menial  relation  to  the  Duke,  and 
foresaw  that  when  I  went  back  to  him  with  those  bath- 
gowns  he  would  not  thank  me  as  one  gentleman  would 
another,  but  would  offer  me  a  tip  as  if  I  were  a  servant. 
This  gave  me  no  trouble,  for  I  at  once  dramatized  a  little 
scene  between  myself  and  the  Duke,  in  which  I  should  bring 
him  the  bath-gowns,  and  he  should  offer  me  the  tip,  and  I 
should  refuse  it  with  a  low  bow,  and  say  that  I  was  an 
American.  What  I  did  not  dramatize,  or  what  seemed  to 
enter  into  the  dialogue  quite  without  my  agency,  was  the 
Duke's  reply  to  my  proud  speech.  It  was  foreshown  me 
that  he  would  say,  He  did  not  see  why  that  should  make 
any  difference.  I  suppose  it  was  in  the  hurt  I  felt  at  this 
wound  to  our  national  dignity  that  I  now  instantly  invented 
the  society  of  some  ladies,  whom  I  told  of  my  business  with 
those  bath-gowns  (I  still  had  them  in  my  hands),  and  urged 
them  to  go  with  me  and  call  upon  the  Duke.  They  ex 
pressed,  somehow,  that  they  would  rather  not,  and  then  I 
urged  that  the  Duke  was  very  handsome.  This  seemed 
to  end  the  whole  affair,  and  I  passed  on  to  other  visions, 
which  I  cannot  recall. 

I  have  not  often  had  a  dream  of  such  international  import, 
in  the  offense  offered  through  me  to  the  American  character 
and  its  well-known  superiority  to  tips,  but  I  have  had  others 
quite  as  humiliating  to  me  personally.  In  fact,  I  am  rather 
in  the  habit  of  having  such  dreams,  and  I  think  I  may  not 
unjustly  attribute  to  them  the  disciplined  modesty  which  the 
reader  will  hardly  fail  to  detect  in  the  present  essay.  It  has 
more  than  once  been  my  fate  to  find  myself  during  sleep 


I  TALK  OF  DREAMS  311 

in  battle,  where  I  behave  with  so  little  courage  as  to  bring 
discredit  upon  our  flag  and  shame  upon  myself.  In  these 
circumstances  I  am  not  anxious  to  make  even  a  showing  of 
courage ;  my  one  thought  is  to  get  away  as  rapidly  and 
safely  as  possible.  It  is  said  that  this  is  really  the  wish  of 
all  novices  under  fire,  and  that  the  difference  between  a  hero 
and  a  coward  is  that  the  hero  hides  it,  with  a  duplicity  which 
finally  does  him  honor,  and  that  the  coward  frankly  runs 
away.  I  have  never  really  been  in  battle,  and  if  it  is  any 
thing  like  a  battle  in  dreams  I  would  not  willingly  qualify 
myself  to  speak  by  the  card  on  this  point.  Neither  have  I 
ever  really  been  upon  the  stage,  but  in  dreams  I  have  often 
been  there,  and  always  in  a  great  trouble  of  mind  at  not 
knowing  my  part.  It  seems  a  little  odd  that  I  should  not 
sometimes  be  prepared,  but  I  never  am,  and  I  feel  that  when 
the  curtain  rises  I  shall  be  disgraced  beyond  all  reprieve. 
I  dare  say  it  is  the  suffering  from  this  that  awakens  me  in 
time,  or  changes  the  current  of  my  dreams  so  that  I  have 
never  yet  been  actually  hooted  from  the  stage. 

ii 

But  I  do  not  so  much  object  to  these  ordeals  as  to  some 
social  experiences  which  I  have  in  dreams.  I  cannot  under 
stand  why  one  should  dream  of  being  slighted  or  snubbed 
in  society,  but  this  is  what  I  have  done  more  than  once, 
though  never  perhaps  so  signally  as  in  the  instance  I  am 
about  to  give.  I  found  myself  in  a  large  room,  where  people 
were  sitting  at  lunch  or  supper  around  small  tables,  as  is 
the  custom,  I  am  told,  at  parties  in  the  houses  of  our  no 
bility  and  gentry.  I  was  feeling  very  well;  not  too  proud, 
I  hope,  but  in  harmony  with  the  time  and  place.  I  was  very 
well  dressed,  for  me ;  and  as  I  stood  talking  to  some  ladies 
at  one  of  the  tables  I  was  saying  some  rather  brilliant  things, 
for  me ;  I  lounged  easily  on  one  foot,  as  I  have  observed  men 


312  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

of  fashion  do,  and  as  I  talked,  I  flipped  my  gloves,  which 
I  held  in  one  hand,  across  the  other;  I  remember  thinking 
that  this  was  a  peculiarly  distinguished  action.  Upon  the 
whole  I  comported  myself  like  one  in  the  habit  of  such 
affairs,  and  I  turned  to  walk  away  to  another  table,  very 
well  satisfied  with  myself  and  with  the  effect  of  my  splendor 
upon  the  ladies.  But  I  had  got  only  a  few  paces  off  when 
I  perceived  (I  could  not  see  with  my  back  turned)  one  of 
the  ladies  lean  forward,  and  heard  her  say  to  the  rest  in  a 
tone  of  killing  condescension  and  patronage :  "  /  don't  see 
why  that  person  isn't  as  well  as  another." 

I  say  that  I  do  not  like  this  sort  of  dreams,  and  I  never 
would  have  them  if  I  could  help.  T*hey  make  me  ask 
myself  if  I  am  really  such  a  snob  when  I  am  waking,  and 
this  in  itself  is  very  unpleasant.  If  I  am,  I  cannot  help 
hoping  that  it  will  not  be  found  out;  and  in  my  dreams  I 
am  always  less  sorry  for  the  misdeeds  I  commit  than  for 
their  possible  discovery.  I  have  done  some  very  bad  things 
in  dreams  which  I  have  no  concern  for  whatever,  except 
as  they  seem  to  threaten  me  with  publicity  or  bring  me 
within  the  penalty  of  the  law ;  and  I  believe  this  is  the  atti 
tude  of  most  other  criminals,  remorse  being  a  fiction  of  the 
poets,  according  to  the  students  of  the  criminal  class.  It  is 
not  agreeable  to  bring  this  home  to  one's  self,  but  the  fact 
is  not  without  its  significance  in  another  direction.  It  im 
plies  that  both  in  the  case  of  the  dream-criminal  and  the 
deed-criminal  there  is  perhaps  the  same  taint  of  insanity; 
only  in  the  deed-criminal  it  is  active,  and  in  the  dream- 
criminal  it  is  passive.  In  both,  the  inhibitory  clause  that 
forbids  evil  is  off,  but  the  dreamer  is  not  bidden  to  do  evil 
as  the  maniac  is,  or  as  the  malefactor  often  seems  to  be. 
The  dreamer  is  purely  unmoral;  good  and  bad  are  the 
same  to  his  conscience;  he  has  no  more  to  do  with  right 
and  wrong  than  the  animals;  he  is  reduced  to  the  state  of 


I  TALK  OF  DREAMS,  313 

the  merely  natural  man ;  and  perhaps  the  primitive  men 
were  really  like  what  we  all  are  now  in  our  dreams.  Per 
haps  all  life  to  them  was  merely  dreaming,  and  they  never 
had  anything  like  our  waking  consciousness,  which  seems 
to  be  the  offspring  of  conscience,  or  else  the  parent  of  it. 
Until  men  passed  the  first  stage  of  being,  perhaps  that 
which  we  call  the  soul,  for  want  of  a  better  name,  or  a 
worse,  could  hardly  have  existed,  and  perhaps  in  dreams  the 
soul  is  mostly  absent  now.  The  soul,  or  the  principle  that 
we  call  the  soul,  is  the  supernal  criticism  of  the  deeds  done 
in  the  body,  which  goes  perpetually  on  in  the  waking  mind. 
While  this  watches,  and  warns  or  commands,  we  go  right; 
but  when  it  is  off  duty  we  go  neither  right  nor  wrong,  but 
are  as  the  beasts  that  perish. 

A  common  theory  is  that  the  dreams  which  we  remem 
ber  are  those  we  have  in  the  drowse  which  precedes  sleep 
ing  and  waking;  but  I  do  not  altogether  accept  this  theory. 
In  fact,  there  is  very  little  proof  of  it.  We  often  wake 
from  a  dream,  literally,  but  there  is  no  proof  that  we  did 
not  dream  in  the  middle  of  the  night  the  dream  which  is 
quite  as  vividly  with  us  in  the  morning  as  the  one  we  wake 
from.  I  should  think  that  the  dream  which  has  some  color 
of  conscience  in  it  was  the  drowse-dream,  and  that  the 
dream  which  has  none  is  the  sleep-dream;  and  I  believe 
that  the  most  of  our  dreams  will  be  found  by  this  test 
to  be  sleep-dreams.  It  is  in  these  we  may  know  what 
we  would  be  without  our  souls,  without  their  supernal  criti 
cism  of  the  mind ;  for  the  mind  keeps  on  working  in  them, 
with  the  lights  of  waking  knowledge,  both  experience  and 
observation,  but  ruthlessly,  remorselessly.  By  them  we 
may  know  what  the  state  of  the  habitual  criminal  is,  what 
the  state  of  the  lunatic,  the  animal,  the  devil  is.  In  them 
the  personal  character  ceases;  the  dreamer  is  remanded 
to  his  type. 


314  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

in 

* 

It  is  very  strange,  in  the  matter  of  dreadful  dreams,  how 
the  body  of  the  terror  is,  in  the  course  of  often  dreaming, 
reduced  to  a  mere  convention.  For  a  long  time  I  was 
tormented  with  a  nightmare  of  burglars,  and  at  first  I  used 
to  dramatize  the  whole  affair  in  detail,  from  the  time  the 
burglars  approached  the  house  till  they  mounted  the  stairs 
and  the  light  of  their  dark-lanterns  shone  under  the  door 
into  my  room.  Now  I  have  blue-penciled  all  that  intro 
ductory  detail;  I  have  a  light  shining  in  under  my  door 
at  once ;  I  know  that  it  is  my  old  burglars ;  and  I  have  the 
effect  of  nightmare  without  further  ceremony.  There  are 
other  nightmares  that  still  cost  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
in  their  construction,  as,  for  instance,  the  nightmare  of 
clinging  to  the  face  of  a  precipice  or  the  eaves  of  a  lofty 
building;  I  have  to  take  as  much  pains  with  the  arrange 
ment  of  these  as  if  I  were  now  dreaming  them  for  the  first 
.time  and  were  hardly  more  than  an  apprentice  in  the 
business. 

Perhaps  the  most  universal  dream  of  all  is  that  dis 
graceful  dream  of  appearing  in  public  places  and  in  society 
with  very  little  or  nothing  on.  This  dream  spares  neither 
age  nor  sex,  I  believe,  and  I  daresay  the  innocency  of  word 
less  infancy  is  abused  by  it  and  dotage  pursued  to  the  tomb. 
I  have  not  the  least  doubt  Adam  and  Eve  had  it  in  Eden; 
though,  up  to  the  moment  the  fig-leaf  came  in,  it  is  difficult 
to  imagine  just  what  plight  they  found  themselves  in  that 
seemed  improper;  probably  there  was  some  plight.  The 
most  amusing  thing  about  this  dream  is  the  sort  of  defensive 
process  that  goes  on  in  the  mind  in  search  of  self-justifica 
tion  or  explanation.  Is  there  not  some  peculiar  circum 
stance  or  special  condition  in  whose  virtue  it  is  wholly  right 
and  proper  for  one  to  come  to  a  fashionable  assembly  clad 


I  TALK  OF  DREAMS  315 

simply  in  a  towel,  or  to  go  about  the  street  in  nothing  but 
a  pair  of  kid  gloves,  or  of  pajamas  at  the  most?  This,  or 
something  like  it,  the  mind  of  the  dreamer  struggles  to 
establish,  with  a  good  deal  of  anxious  appeal  to  the  by 
standers  and  a  final  sense  of  the  hopelessness  of  the  cause. 

One  may  easily  laugh  off  this  sort  of  dream  in  the  morn 
ing,  but  there  are  other  shameful  dreams  whose  inculpation 
projects  itself  far  into  the  day,  and  whose  infamy  often 
lingers  about  one  till  lunch-time.  Everyone,  nearly,  has  had 
them,  but  it  is  not  the  kind  of  dream  that  anyone  is  fond 
of  telling:  the  gross  vanity  of  the  most  besotted  dream- 
teller  keeps  that  sort  back.  During  the  forenoon,  at  least, 
the  victim  goes  about  with  the  dim  question  whether  he  is 
not  really  that  kind  of  man  harassing  him,  and  a  sort  of 
remote  fear  that  he  may  be.  I  fancy  that  as  to  his  nature 
and  as  to  his  mind  he  is  so,  and  that  but  for  the  supernal 
criticism,  but  for  his  soul,  he  might  be  that  kind  of  man 
in  very  act  and  deed. 

The  dreams  we  sometimes  have  about  other  people  are 
not  without  a  curious  suggestion;  and  the  superstitious 
(of  those  superstitious  who  like  to  invent  their  own  super 
stitions)  might  very  well  imagine  that  the  persons  dreamed 
of  had  a  witting  complicity  in  their  facts,  as  well  as  the 
dreamer.  This  is  a  conjecture  that  must,  of  course,  not  be 
forced  to  any  conclusion.  One  must  not  go  to  one  of  these 
persons  and  ask,  however  much  one  would  like  to  ask :  "  Sir, 
have  you  no  recollection  of  such  and  such  a  thing,  at  such 
and  such  a  time  and  place,  which  happened  to  us  in  my 
dream?"  Any  such  person  would  be  fully  justified  in  not 
answering  the  question.  It  would  be,  of  all  interviewing, 
the  most  intolerable  species.  Yet  a  singular  interest,  a  curi 
osity  not  altogether  indefensible,  will  attach  to  these  persons 
in  the  dreamer's  mind,  and  he  will  not  be  without  the  sense, 
ever  after,  that  he  and  they  have  a  secret  in  common.  This 


316  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

is  dreadful,  but  the  only  thing  that  I  can  think  to  do  about 
it  is  to  urge  people  to  keep  out  of  other  people's  dreams  by 
every  means  in  their  power. 

IV 

There  are  things  in  dreams  very  awful,  which  would  not 
be  at  all  so  in  waking — quite  witless  and  aimless  things, 
which  at  the  time  were  of  such  baleful  effect  that  it  remains 
forever.  I  remember  dreaming  when  I  was  quite  a  small 
boy,  not  more  than  ten  years  old,  a  dream  which  is  vivider 
in  my  mind  now  than  anything  that  happened  at  the  time. 
I  suppose  it  came  remotely  from  my  reading  of  certain 
"  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  the  Arabesque,"  which  had 
just  then  fallen  into  my  hands;  and  it  involved  simply  an 
action  of  the  fire-company  in  the  little  town  where  I  lived. 
They  were  working  the  brakes  of  the  old  fire-engine,  which 
would  seldom  respond  to  their  efforts,  and  as  their  hands 
rose  and  fell  they  set  up  the  heart-shaking  and  soul-desolat 
ing  cry  of  "  Arms  Poe !  arms  Poe !  arms  Poe !  "  This  and 
nothing  more  was  the  body  of  my  horror;  and  if  the  reader 
is  not  moved  by  it  the  fault  is  his  and  not  mine;  for  I  can 
assure  him  that  nothing  in  my  experience  had  been  more 
dreadful  to  me. 

I  can  hardly  except  the  dismaying  apparition  of  a  clown 
whom  I  once  saw,  somewhat  later  in  life,  rise  through  the 
air  in  a  sitting  posture  and  float  lightly  over  the  house-roof, 
snapping  his  fingers  and  vaguely  smiling,  while  the  antennae 
on  his  forehead,  which  clowns  have  in  common  with  some 
other  insects,  nodded  elasticity.  I  do  not  know  why  this 
portent  should  have  been  so  terrifying,  or  indeed  that  it  was 
a  portent  at  all,  for  nothing  ever  came  of  it;  what  I  know 
is  that  it  was  to  the  last  degree  threatening  and  awful.  I 
never  got  anything  but  joy  out  of  the  circuses  where  this 
dream  must  have  originated,  but  the  pantomime  of  "  Don 


I  TALK  OF  DREAMS  317 

Giovanni,"  which  I  saw  at  the  theater,  was  as  grewsome  to 
me  waking  as  it  was  to  me  dreaming.  The  statue  of  the 
Commendatore,  in  getting  down  from  his  horse  to  pursue 
the  wicked  hero  (I  think  that  is  what  he  gets  down  for), 
set  an  example  by  which  a  long  line  of  statues  afterward 
profited  in  my  dreams.  For  many  years,  and  I  do  not  know 
but  quite  up  to  the  time  when  I  adopted  burglars  as  the 
theme  of  my  nightmares,  I  was  almost  always  chased  by  a 
marble  statue  with  an  uplifted  arm,  and  almost  always  I 
ran  along  the  verge  of  a  pond  to  escape  it.  I  believe  that 
I  got  this  pond  out  of  my  remote  childhood,  and  that  it 
may  have  been  a  fish-pond  embowered  by  weeping-willows 
which  I  used  to  admire  in  the  door-yard  of  a  neighbor. 
I  have  somehow  a  greater  respect  for  the  material  of  this 
earlier  nightmare  than  I  have  for  that  of  the  later  ones, 
and  no  doubt  the  reader  will  agree  with  me  that  it  is  much 
more  romantic  to  be  pursued  by  a  statue  than  to  be  threat 
ened  by  burglars.  It  is  but  a  few  hours  ago,  however,  that 
I  saved  myself  from  these  inveterate  enemies  by  waking  up 
just  in  time  for  breakfast.  They  did  not  come  with  that 
light  of  the  dark-lanterns  shining  under  the  door,  or  I  should 
have  known  them  at  once,  and  not  had  so  much  bother ;  but 
they  intimated  their  presence  in  the  catch  of  the  lock,  which 
would  not  close  securely,  and  there  was  some  question  at  first 
whether  they  were  not  ghosts.  I  thought  of  tying  the  door 
knob  on  the  inside  of  my  room  to  my  bedpost  (a  bedpost  that 
has  not  been  in  existence  for  fifty  years),  but  after  suffering 
awhile  I  decided  to  speak  to  them  from  an  upper  window. 
By  this  time  they  had  turned  into  a  trio  of  harmless,  neces 
sary  tramps,  and  at  my  appeal  to  them,  absolutely  nonsensi 
cal  as  I  now  believe  it  to  have  been,  to  regard  the  peculiar 
circumstances,  whatever  they  were  or  were  not,  they  did 
really  get  up  from  the  back  porch  where  they  were  seated 
and  go  quietly  away. 


318  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

Burglars  are  not  always  so  easily  to  be  entreated.  On 
one  occasion,  when  I  found  a  party  of  them  digging  at 
the  corner  of  my  house  on  Concord  Avenue  in  Cambridge, 
and  opened  the  window  over  them  to  expostulate,  the  leader 
looked  up  at  me  in  well-affected  surprise.  He  lifted  his 
hand,  with  a  twenty-dollar  note  in  it,  toward  me,  and  said : 
"  Oh !  Can  you  change  me  a  twenty-dollar  bill  ?  "  I  ex 
pressed  a  polite  regret  that  I  had  not  so  much  money  about 
me,  and  then  he  said  to  the  rest,  "  Go  ahead,  boys,"  and  they 
went  on  undermining  my  house.  I  do  not  know  what  came 
of  it  all. 

Of  ghosts  I  have  seldom  dreamed,  so  far  as  I  can  remem 
ber  ;  in  fact,  I  have  never  dreamed  of  the  kind  of  ghosts 
that  we  are  all  more  or  less  afraid  of,  though  I  have  dreamed 
rather  often  of  the  spirits  of  departed  friends.  But  I  once 
dreamed  of  dying,  and  the  reader,  who  has  never  died  yet, 
may  be  interested  to  know  what  it  is  like.  According  to 
this  experience  of  mine,  which  I  do  not  claim  is  typical,  it 
is  like  a  fire  kindling  in  an  air-tight  stove  with  paper  and 
shavings;  the  gathering  smoke  and  gases  suddenly  burst 
into  flame  and  puff  the  door  out,  and  all  is  over. 

I  have  not  yet  been  led  to  execution  for  the  many  crimes 
I  have  committed  in  my  dreams,  but  I  was  once  in  the 
hands  of  a  barber  who  added  to  the  shaving  and  sham 
pooing  business  the  art  of  removing  his  customers'  heads  in 
treatment  for  headache.  As  I  took  my  seat  in  his  chair  I 
had  some  lingering  doubts  as  to  the  effect  of  a  treatment  so 
drastic,  and  I  ventured  to  mention  the  case  of  a  friend 
of  mine,  a  gentleman  somewhat  eminent  in  the  law,  who 
after  several  weeks  was  still  going  about  without  his  head. 
The  barber  did  not  attempt  to  refute  my  position.  He 
merely  said :  "  Oh,  well,  he  had  such  a  very  thick  sort  of 
a  head,  anyway." 

This  was  a  sarcasm,  but  I  think  it  was  urged  as  a  reason, 


I  TALK  OF  DREAMS  319 

though  it  may  not  have  been.  We  rarely  bring  away  from 
sleep  the  things  that  seem  so  brilliant  to  us  in  our  dreams. 
Verse  is  especially  apt  to  fade  away,  or  turn  into  doggerel 
in  the  memory,  and  the  witty  sayings  which  we  contrive  to 
remember  will  hardly  bear  the  test  of  daylight.  The  most 
perfect  thing  of  the  kind  out  of  my  own  dreams  was  some 
thing  that  I  seemed  to  wake  with  the  very  sound  of  in  my 
ears.  It  was  after  a  certain  dinner,  which  had  been  rather 
uncommonly  gay,  with  a  good  deal  of  very  good  talk,  which 
seemed  to  go  on  all  night,  and  when  I  woke  in  the  morning 
someone  was  saying :  "  Oh,  I  shouldn't  at  all  mind  his  rob 
bing  Peter  to  pay  Paul,  if  I  felt  sure  that  Paul  would  get 
the  money."  This  I  think  really  humorous,  and  an  extremely 
neat  bit  of  characterization;  I  feel  free  to  praise  it,  be 
cause  it  was  not  I  who  said  it. 


Apparently  the  greater  part  of  dreams  have  no  more  mirth 
than  sense  in  them.  This  is  perhaps  because  the  man  is  in 
dreams  reduced  to  the  brute  condition,  and  is  the  lawless 
inferior  of  the  waking  man  intellectually,  as  the  lawless  in 
waking  are  always  the  inferiors  of  the  lawful.  Some  loose 
thinkers  suppose  that  if  we  give  the  rein  to  imagination  it 
will  do  great  things,  but  it  will  really  do  little  things,  foolish 
and  worthless  things,  as  we  witness  in  dreams,  where  it  is 
quite  unbridled.  It  must  keep  close  to  truth,  and  it  must 
be  under  the  law  if  it  would  work  strongly  and  sanely. 
The  man  in  his  dreams  is  really  lower  than  the  lunatic  in 
his  deliriums.  These  have  a  logic  of  their  own ;  but  the 
dreamer  has  not  even  a  crazy  logic. 

"  Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams," 

and  probably  his  dreams  and  the  dog's  are  not  only  alike, 
but  are  of  the  same  quality.    In  his  wicked  dreams  the  man 


320  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

is  not  only  animal,  he  is  devil,  so  wholly  is  he  let  into  his 
evils,  as  the  Swedenborgians  say.  The  wrong  is  indifferent 
to  him  until  the  fear  of  detection  and  punishment  steals  in 
upon  him.  Even  then  he  is  not  sorry  for  his  misdeed,  as  I 
have  said  before;  he  is  only  anxious  to  escape  its  conse 
quences. 

It  seems  probable  that  when  this  fear  makes  itself  felt 
he  is  near  to  waking;  and  probably  when  we  dream,  as  we 
often  do,  that  the  thing  is  only  a  dream,  and  hope  for 
rescue  from  it  by  waking,  we  are  always  just  about  to  wake. 
This  double  effect  is  very  strange,  but  still  more  strange 
is  the  effect  which  we  are  privy  to  in  the  minds  of  others 
when  they  not  merely  say  things  to  us  which  are  wholly 
unexpected,  but  think  things  that  we  know  they  are  think 
ing,  and  that  they  do  not  express  in  words.  A  great  many 
years  ago,  when  I  was  young,  I  dreamed  that  my  father, 
who  was  in  another  town,  came  into  the  room  where  I  was 
really  lying  asleep  and  stood  by  my  bed.  He  wished  to 
greet  me,  after  our  separation,  but  he  reasoned  that  if  he 
did  so  I  should  wake,  and  he  turned  and  left  the  room  with 
out  touching  me.  This  process  in  his  mind,  which  I  knew 
as  clearly  and  accurately  as  if  it  had  apparently  gone  on 
in  my  own,  was  apparently  confined  to  his  mind  as  abso 
lutely  as  anything  could  be  that  was  not  spoken  or  in  any 
wise  uttered. 

Of  course,  it  was  of  my  agency,  like  any  other  part  of 
the  dream,  and  it  was  something  like  the  operation  of  the 
novelist's  intention  through  the  mind  of  his  characters.  But 
in  this  there  is  the  author's  consciousness  that  he  is  doing 
it  all  himself,  while  in  my  dream  this  reasoning  in  the  mind 
of  another  was  something  that  I  felt  myself  mere  witness 
of.  In  fact,  there  is  no  analogy,  so  far  as  I  can  make  out, 
between  the  process  of  literary  invention  and  the  process 
of  dreaming.  In  the  invention,  the  critical  faculty  is  vividly 


I  TALK  OF  DREAMS  321 

and  constantly  alert ;  in  dreaming,  it  seems  altogether  absent. 
It  seems  absent,  too,  in  what  we  call  day-dreaming,  or  that 
sort  of  dramatizing  action  which  perhaps  goes  on  perpetually 
in  the  mind,  or  some  minds.  But  this  day-dreaming  is  not 
otherwise  any  more  like  night-dreaming  than  invention  is; 
for  the  man  is  never  more  actively  and  consciously  a  man, 
and  never  has  a  greater  will  to  be  fine  and  high  and  grand 
than  in  his  day-dreams,  while  in  his  night-dreams  he  is 
quite  willing  to  be  a  miscreant  of  any  worst  sort. 

It  is  very  remarkable,  in  view  of  this  fact,  that  we  have 
now  and  then,  though  ever  so  much  more  rarely,  dreams 
that  are  as  angelic  as  those  others  are  demoniac.  Is  it  pos 
sible  that  then  the  dreamer  is  let  into  his  goods  (the  word 
is  Swedenborg's  again)  instead  of  his  evils?  It  may  be 
supposed  that  in  sleep  the  dreamer  lies  passive,  while  his 
proper  soul  is  away,  and  other  spirits,  celestial  and  infernal, 
have  free  access  to  his  mind,  and  abuse  it  to  their  own  ends 
in  the  one  case,  and  use  it  in  his  behalf  in  the  other. 

That  would  be  an  explanation,  but  nothing  seems  quite 
to  hold  in  regard  to  dreams.  If  it  is  true,  why  should  the 
dreamer's  state  so  much  oftener  be  imbued  with  evil  than 
with  good?  It  might  be  answered  that  the  evil  forces  are 
much  more  positive  and  aggressive  than  the  good;  or  that 
the  love  of  the  dreamer,  which  is  his  life,  being  mainly  evil, 
invites  the  wicked  spirits  oftener.  But  that  is  a  point 
which  I  would  rather  leave  each  dreamer  to  settle  for  him 
self.  The  greater  number  of  everyone's  dreams,  like  the 
romantic  novel,  I  fancy,  concern  incident  rather  than  char 
acter,  and  I  am  not  sure,  after  all,  that  the  dream  which 
convicts  the  dreamer  of  an  essential  baseness  is  commoner 
than  the  dream  that  tells  in  his  favor  morally. 

I  daresay  every  reader  of  this  book  has  had  dreams  so 
amusing  that  he  has  wakened  himself  from  them  by  laugh 
ing,  and  then  not  found  them  so  very  funny,  or  perhaps 


322  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

not  been  able  to  recall  them  at  all.  I  have  had  at  least  one 
of  this  sort,  remarkable  for  other  reasons,  which  remains 
perfect  in  my  mind,  though  it  is  now  some  ten  years  old. 
One  of  the  children  had  been  exposed  to  a  very  remote 
chance  of  scarlet-fever  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  and  had 
been  duly  scolded  for  the  risk,  which  was  then  quite  for 
gotten.  I  dreamed  that  this  friend,  however,  was  giving 
a  ladies'  lunch,  at  which  I  was  unaccountably  and  invisibly 
present,  and  the  talk  began  to  run  upon  the  scarlet- fever 
cases  in  her  family.  She  said  that  after  the  last  she  had 
fumigated  the  whole  house  for  seventy-two  hours  (the 
period  seemed  very  significant  and  important  in  my  dream), 
and  had  burned  everything  she  could  lay  her  hands  on. 

"  And  what  did  the  nurse  burn  ?  "  asked  one  of  the  other 
ladies. 

The  hostess  began  to  laugh.  "  The  nurse  didn't  burn  a 
thing!" 

Then  all  the  rest  burst  out  laughing  at  the  joke,  and  the 
laughter  woke  me,  to  see  the  boy  sitting  up  in  his  bed 
and  hear  him  saying :  "  Oh,  I  am  so  sick !  " 

It  was  the  nausea  which  announces  scarlet-fever,  and  for 
six  weeks  after  that  we  were  in  quarantine.  Very  likely 
the  fear  of  the  contagion  had  been  in  my  nether  mind  all 
the  time,  but,  so  far  as  consciousness  could  testify  of  it,  I 
had  wholly  forgotten  it. 

VI 

One  rarely  loses  one's  personality  in  dreams ;  it  is  rather 
intensified,  with  all  the  proper  circumstances  and  relations  of 
it,  but  I  have  had  at  least  one  dream  in  which  I  seemed 
to  transcend  my  own  circumstance  and  condition  with  re 
markable  completeness.  Even  my  epoch,  my  precious 
present,  I  left  behind  (or  ahead,  rather),  and  in  my  unity 
with  the  persons  of  my  dream  I  became  strictly  mediaeval. 


I  TALK  OF  DREAMS  323 

In  fact,  I  have  always  called  it  my  mediaeval  dream,  to 
such  as  I  could  get  to  listen  to  it;  and  it  had  for  its  scene 
a  feudal  tower  in  some  waste  place,  a  tower  open  at  the  top 
and  with  a  deep,  clear  pool  of  water  at  the  bottom,  so-  that 
it  instantly  became  known  to  me,  as  if  I  had  always  known 
it,  for  the  Pool  Tower.  While  I  stood  looking  into  it,  in  a 
mediaeval  dress  and  a  mediaeval  mood,  there  came  flying  in 
at  the  open  door  of  the  ruin  beside  me  the  duke's  hunchback, 
and  after  him,  furious  and  shrieking  maledictions,  the 
swarthy  beauty  whom  I  was  aware  the  duke  was  tired  of. 
The  keeping  was  now  not  only  ducal,  but  thoroughly  Italian, 
and  it  was  suggested  somehow  to  my  own  subtle  Italian  per 
ception  that  the  hunchback  had  been  set  on  to  tease  the  girl 
and  provoke  her  so  that  she  would  turn  upon  him  and  try 
to  wreak  her  fury  on  him  and  chase  him  into  the  Pool 
Tower  and  up  the  stone  stairs  that  wound  round  its  hollow 
to  the  top,  where  the  solemn  sky  showed.  The  fearful  spire 
of  the  steps  was  unguarded,  and  when  I  had  lost  the  pair 
from  sight,  with  the  dwarf's  mocking  laughter  and  the  girl's 
angry  cries  in  my  ears,  there  came  fluttering  from  the  height, 
like  a  bird  wounded  and  whirling  from  a  lofty  tree,  the 
figure  of  the  girl,  while  far  aloof  the  hunchback  peered  over 
at  her  fall.  Midway  in  her  descent  her  head  struck  against 
the  edge  of  the  steps,  with  a  kish,  such  as  an  egg-shell  makes 
when  broken  against  the  edge  of  a  platter,  and  then  plunged 
into  the  dark  pool  at  my  feet,  where  I  could  presently  see 
her  lying  in  the  clear  depths  and  the  blood  curling  upward 
from  the  wound  in  her  skull  like  a  dark  smoke.  I  was  not 
sensible  of  any  great  pity;  I  accepted  the  affair,  quite  mediae- 
vally,  as  something  that  might  very  well  have  happened, 
given  the  girl,  the  duke  and  the  dwarf,  and  the  time  and 
place. 

I  am  rather  fond  of  a  mediaeval  setting  for  those 

"  Dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye," 


324  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

just  closing  for  an  afternoon  nap.  Then  I  invite  to  my  vision 
a  wide  landscape,  with  a  cold,  wintry  afternoon  light  upon 
it,  and  over  this  plain  I  have  bands  and  groups  of  people 
scurrying,  in  mediaeval  hose  of  divers  colors  and  mediaeval 
leathern  jerkins,  hugging  themselves  against  the  frost,  and 
very  miserable.  They  affect  me  with  a  profound  compas 
sion;  they  represent  to  me,  somehow,  the  vast  mass  of 
humanity,  the  mass  that  does  the  work,  and  earns  the  bread, 
and  goes  cold  and  hungry  through  all  the  ages.  I  should  be 
at  a  loss  to  say  why  this  was  the  effect,  and  I  am  utterly 
unable  to  say  why  these  fore-dreams,  which  I  partially 
solicit,  should  have  such  a  tremendous  significance  as  they 
seem  to  have.  They  are  mostly  of  the  most  evanescent  and 
intangible  character,  but  they  have  one  trait  in  common. 
They  always  involve  the  attribution  of  ethical  motive  and 
quality  to  material  things,  and  in  their  passage  through  my 
brain  they  promise  me  a  solution  of  the  riddle  of  the  painful 
earth  in  the  very  instant  when  they  are  gone  forever.  They 
are  of  innumerable  multitude,  chasing  each  other  with  the 
swiftness  of  light,  and  never  staying  to  be  seized  by  the 
memory,  which  seems  already  drugged  with  sleep  before 
their  course  begins.  One  of  these  dreams,  indeed,  I  did 
capture,  and  I  found  it  to  be  the  figure  8,  but  lying  on  its 
side,  and  in  that  posture  involving  the  mystery  and  the 
revelation  of  the  mystery  of  the  universe.  I  leave  the 
reader  to  imagine  why. 

As  we  grow  older,  I  think  we  are  less  and  less  able 
to  remember  our  dreams.  This  is  perhaps  because  the 
experience  of  youth  is  less  dense,  and  the  empty  spaces 
of  the  young  consciousness  are  more  hospitable  to  these 
airy  visitants.  A  few  dreams  of  my  later  life  stand  out 
in  strong  relief,  but  for  the  most  part  they  blend  in  an 
indistinguishable  mass,  and  pass  away  with  the  actualities 
into  a  common  oblivion.  I  should  say  that  they  were 


I  TALK  OF  DREAMS  325 

more  frequent  with  me  than  they  used  to  be ;  it  seems 
to  me  that  now  I  dream  whole  nights  through,  and  much 
more  about  the  business  of  my  waking  life  than  formerly. 
As  I  earn  my  living  by  weaving  a  certain  sort  of  dreams 
into  literary  form,  it  might  be  supposed  that  I  would  some 
time  dream  of  the  personages  in  these  dreams,  but  I  can 
not  remember  that  I  have  ever  done  so.  The  two  kinds 
of  inventing,  the  voluntary  and  the  involuntary,  seem  abso 
lutely  and  finally  distinct. 

Of  the  prophetic  dreams  which  people  sometimes  have 
I  have  mentioned  the  only  one  of  mine  which  had  any 
dramatic  interest,  but  I  have  verified  in  my  own  experience 
the  theory  of  Ribot  that  approaching  disease  sometimes  inti 
mates  itself  in  dreams  of  the  disorder  impending,  before  it 
is  otherwise  declared  in  the  organism.  In  actual  sickness 
I  think  that  I  dream  rather  less  than  in  health.  I  had  a 
malarial  fever  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  I  had  a  sort 
of  continuous  dream  in  it  that  distressed  me  greatly. 
It  was  of  gliding  down  the  school-house  stairs  without 
touching  my  feet  to  the  steps,  and  this  was  indescribably 
appalling. 

The  anguish  of  mind  that  one  suffers  from  the  imagi 
nary  dangers  of  dreams  is  probably  of  the  same  quality 
as  that  inspired  by  real  peril  in  waking.  A  curious  proof 
of  this  happened  within  my  knowledge  not  many  years  ago. 
One  of  the  neighbor's  children  was  coasting  down  a  long 
hill  with  a  railroad  at  the  foot  of  it,  and  as  he  neared  the 
bottom  an  express-train  rushed  round  the  curve.  The  flag 
man  ran  forward  and  shouted  to  the  boy  to  throw  himself 
off  his  sled,  but  he  kept  on  and  ran  into  the  locomotive, 
and  was  so  hurt  that  he  died.  His  injuries,  however,  were 
to  the  spine,  and  they  were  of  a  kind  that  rendered  him 
insensible  to  pain  while  he  lived.  He  talked  very  clearly 
and  calmly  of  his  accident,  and  when  he  was  asked  why 


326  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

he  did  not  throw  himself  off  his  sled,  as  the  flag-man  bade 
him,  he  said:  "I  thought  it  was  a  dream."  The  reality 
had,  through  the  mental  stress,  no  doubt  transmuted  itself 
to  the  very  substance  of  dreams,  and  he  had  felt  the  same 
kind  and  quality  of  suffering  as  he  would  have  done  if  he 
had  been  dreaming.  The  Norwegian  poet  and  novelist 
Bjornstjerne  Bjornson  was  at  my  house  shortly  after  this 
happened,  and  he  was  greatly  struck  by  the  psychological 
implications  of  the  incident;  it  seemed  to  mean  for  him  all 
sorts  of  possibilities  in  the  obscure  realm  where  it  cast  a 
fitful  light. 

But  such  a  glimmer  soon  fades,  and  the  darkness  thickens 
round  us  again.  It  is  not  with  the  blindfold  sense  of  sleep 
that  we  shall  ever  find  out  the  secret  of  life,  I  fancy,  either 
in  the  dreams  which  seem  personal  to  us  each  one,  or  those 
universal  dreams  which  we  apparently  share  with  the  whole 
race.  Of  the  race-dream,  as  I  may  call  it,  there  is  one 
hardly  less  common  than  that  dream  of  going  about  in 
sufficiently  clad,  which  I  have  already  mentioned,  and  that 
is  the  dream  of  suddenly  falling  from  some  height  and 
waking  with  a  start.  The  experience  before  the  start  is 
extremely  dim,  and  latterly  I  have  condensed  this  dread 
almost  as  much  as  the  preliminary  passages  of  my  burglar- 
dream.  I  am  aware  of  nothing  but  an  instant  of  danger, 
and  then  comes  the  jar  or  jolt  that  wakens  me.  Upon 
the  whole,  I  find  this  a  great  saving  of  emotion,  and  I  do 
not  know  but  there  is  a  tendency,  as  I  grow  older,  to  shorten 
up  the  detail  of  what  may  be  styled  the  conventional  dream, 
the  dream  which  we  have  so  often  that  it  is  like  a  story 
read  before.  Indeed,  the  plots  of  dreams  are  not  much 
more  varied  than  the  plots  of  romantic  novels,  which  are 
notoriously  stale  and  hackneyed.  It  would  be  interesting, 
and  possibly  important,  if  some  observer  would  note  the 
recurrence  of  this  sort  of  dreams  and  classify  their  varie- 


I  TALK  OF  DREAMS  327 

ties.     I  think  we  should  all  be  astonished  to  find  how  few 
and  slight  the  variations  were. 


VII 


If  I  come  to  speak  of  dreams  concerning  the  dead,  it 
must  be  with  a  tenderness  and  awe  that  all  who  have  had 
them  will  share  with  me.  Nothing  is  more  remarkable  in 
them  than  the  fact  that  the  dead,  though  they  are  dead, 
yet  live,  and  are,  to  our  commerce  with  them,  quite  like 
all  other  living  persons.  We  may  recognize,  and  they  may 
recognize,  that  they  are  no  longer  in  the  body,  but  they 
are.  as  verily  living  as  we  are.  This  may  be  merely  an 
effect  from  the  doctrine  of  immortality  which  we  all  hold 
or  have  held,  and  yet  I  would  fain  believe  that  it  may  be 
something  like  proof  of  it.  No  one  really  knows,  or  can 
know,  but  one  may  at  least  hope,  without  offending  science, 
which  indeed  no  longer  frowns  so  darkly  upon  faith.  This 
persistence  of  life  in  those  whom  we  mourn  as  dead,  may 
not  it  be  a  witness  of  the  fact  that  the  consciousness  cannot 
accept  the  notion  of  death  at  all,  and, 

"Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith," 

that  we  have  never  truly  felt  them  lost?  Sometimes  those 
who  have  died  come  back  in  dreams  as  parts  of  a  common 
life  which  seems  never  to  have  been  broken;  the  old  circle 
is  restored  without  a  flaw;  but  whether  they  do  this,  or 
whether  it  is  acknowledged  between  them  and  us  that  they 
have  died,  and  are  now  disembodied  spirits,  the  effect  of 
life  is  the  same.  Perhaps  in  those  dreams  they  and  we 
are  alike  disembodied  spirits,  and  the  soul  of  the  dreamer, 
which  so  often  seems  to  abandon  the  body  to  the  animal,  is 
then  the  conscious  entity,  the  thing  which  the  dreamer  feels 
to  be  himself,  and  is  mingling  with  the  souls  of  the  de- 


328  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

parted  on  something  like  the  terms  which  shall  hereafter 
be  constant. 

I  think  very  few  of  those  who  have  lost  their  beloved 
have  failed  to  receive  some  sign  or  message  from  them 
in  dreams,  and  often  it  is  of  deep  and  abiding  consola 
tion.  It  may  be  that  this  is  our  anguish  compelling  the  echo 
of  love  out  of  the  darkness  where  nothing  is,  but  it  may  be 
that  thene  is  something  there  which  answers  to  our  throe 
with  pity  and  with  longing  like  our  own.  Again,  no  one 
knows,  but  in  a  matter  impossible  of  definite  solution  I 
will  not  refuse  the  comfort  which  belief  can  give.  Un 
belief  can  be  no  gain,  and  belief  no  loss.  But  those  dreams 
are  so  dear,  so  sacred,  so  interwoven  with  the  finest  and 
tenderest  tissues  of  our  being  that  one  cannot  speak  of  them 
freely,  or  indeed  more  than  most  vaguely.  It  is  enough  to 
say  that  one  has  had  them,  and  to  know  that  almost  every 
one  else  has  had  them,  too.  They  seem  to  be  among  the 
universal  dreams,  and  a  strange  quality  of  them  is  that, 
though  they  deal  with  a  fact  of  universal  doubt,  they  are, 
to  my  experience  at  least,  not  nearly  so  fantastic  or  capri 
cious  as  the  dreams  that  deal  with  the  facts  of  every-day 
life  and  with  the  affairs  of  people  still  in  this  world. 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  common  to  dream  of  faces 
or  figures  strange  to  our  waking  knowledge,  but  occasion 
ally  I  have  done  this.  I  suppose  it  is  much  the  same  kind 
of  invention  that  causes  the  person  we  dream  of  to  say  or 
do  a  thing  unexpected  to  us.  But  this  is  rather  common, 
and  the  creation  of  a  novel  aspect,  the  physiognomy  of  a 
stranger,  in  the  person  we  dream  of,  is  rather  rare.  In  all 
my  dreams  I  can  recall  but  one  presence  of  the  kind.  I  have 
never  dreamed  of  any  sort  of  monster  foreign  to  my  knowl 
edge,  or  even  of  any  grotesque  thing  made  up  of  elements 
familiar  to  it ;  the  grotesqueness  has  always  been  in  the 
motive  or  circumstance  of  the  dream.  I  have  very  seldom 


I  TALK  OF  DREAMS  329 

dreamed  of  animals,  though  once,  when  I  was  a  boy,  for 
a  time  after  I  had  passed  a  corn-field  where  there  were 
some  bundles  of  snakes,  writhen  and  knotted  together  in 
the  cold  of  an  early  spring  day,  I  had  dreams  infested  by 
like  images  of  those  loathsome  reptiles.  I  suppose  that 
everyone  has  had  dreams  of  finding  his  way  through  un- 
namable  filth  and  of  feeding  upon  hideous  carnage ;  these 
are  clearly  the  punishment  of  gluttony,  and  are  the  fumes 
of  a  rebellious  stomach. 

I  have  heard  people  say  they  have  sometimes  dreamed 
of  a  thing,  and  awakened  from  their  dream  and  then  fallen 
asleep  and  dreamed  of  the  same  thing;  but  I  believe  that 
this  is  all  one  continuous  dream;  that  they  did  not  really 
awaken,  but  only  dreamed  that  they  awakened.  I  have 
never  had  any  such  dream,  but  at  one  time  I  had  a  recur 
rent  dream,  which  was  so  singular  that  I  thought  no  one 
else  had  ever  had  a  recurrent  dream  till  I  proved  that  it 
was  rather  common  by  starting  the  inquiry  in  the  Con 
tributors'  Club  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  when  I  found  that 
great  nuiribers  of  people  have  recurrent  dreams.  My  own 
recurrent  dreams  began  to  come  during  the  first  year  of 
my  consulate  at  Venice,  where  I  had  hoped  to  find  the 
same  kind  of  poetic  dimness  on  the  phases  of  American 
life,  which  I  wished  to  treat  in  literature,  as  the  distance 
in  time  would  have  given.  I  should  not  wish  any  such  dim 
ness  now ;  but  those  were  my  romantic  days,  and  I  was 
sorely  baffled  by  its  absence.  The  disappointment  began 
to  haunt  my  nights  as  well  as  my  days,  and  a  dream 
repeated  itself  from  week  to  week  for  a  matter  of  eight 
or  ten  months  to  one  effect.  I  dreamed  that  I  had  gone 
home  to  America,  and  that  people  met  me  and  said,  "  Why, 
you  have  given  up  your  place !  "  and  I  always  answered : 
"  Certainly  not ;  I  haven't  done  at  all  what  I  mean  to  do 
there,  yet.  I  am  only  here  on  my  ten  days'  leave.''  I  meant 


33°  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

the  ten  days  which  a  consul  might  take  each  quarter  with 
out  applying  to  the  Department  of  State ;  and  then  I  would 
reflect  how  impossible  it  was  that  I  should  make  the  visit 
in  that  time.  I  saw  that  I  should  be  found  out  and  dis 
missed  from  my  office  and  publicly  disgraced.  Then,  sud 
denly,  I  was  not  consul  at  Venice,  and  had  not  been,  but 
consul  at  Delhi,  in  India;  and  the  distress  I  felt  would  all 
end  in  a  splendid  Oriental  phantasmagory  of  elephants  and 
native  princes,  with  their  retinues  in  procession,  which  I 
suppose  was  mostly  out  of  my  reading  of  De  Quincey.  This 
dream,  with  no  variation  that  I  can  recall,  persisted  till  I 
broke  it  up  by  saying,  in  the  morning  after  it  had  recurred, 
that  I  had  dreamed  that  dream  again;  and  so  it  began  to 
fade  away,  coming  less  and  less  frequently,  and  at  last 
ceasing  altogether. 

I  am  rather  proud  of  that  dream;  it  is  really  my  battle- 
horse  among  dreams,  and  I  think  I  will  ride  away  on  it. 


[From  Impressions  and   Experiences,  by  W.   D.   Howells.     Copy 
right,  1896,  by  W.  D.  Howells.] 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HONEY-BEE 
JOHN  BURROUGHS 

THERE  is  no  creature  with  which  man  has  surrounded 
himself  that  seems  so  much  like  a  product  of  civilization, 
so  much  like  the  result  of  development  on  special  lines  and 
in  special  fields,  as  the  honey-bee.  Indeed,  a  colony  of 
bees,  with  their  neatness  and  love  of  order,  their  division  of 
labor,  their  public-spiritedness,  their  thrift,  their  complex 
economies,  and  their  inordinate  love  of  gain,  seems  as  far 
removed  from  a  condition  of  rude  nature  as  does  a  walled 
city  or  a  cathedral  town.  Our  native  bee,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  "  burly,  dozing  humblebee,"  affects  one  more  like 
the  rude,  untutored  savage.  He  has  learned  nothing  from 
experience.  He  lives  from  hand  to  mouth.  He  luxuriates 
in  time  of  plenty,  and  he  starves  in  times  of  scarcity.  He 
lives  in  a  rude  nest,  or  in  a  hole  in  the  ground,  and  in  small 
communities ;  he  builds  a  few  deep  cells  or  sacks  in  which 
he  stores  a  little  honey  and  bee-bread  for  his  young,  but 
as  a  worker  in  wax  he  is  of  the  most  primitive  and  awk 
ward.  The  Indian  regarded  the  honey-bee  as  an  ill-omen. 
She  was  the  white  man's  fly.  In  fact  she  was  the  epitome 
of  the  white  man  himself.  She  has  the  white  man's  crafti 
ness,  his  industry,  his  architectural  skill,  his  neatness  and 
love  of  system,  his  foresight;  and,  above  all,  his  eager, 
miserly  habits.  The  honey-bee's  great  ambition  is  to  be 
rich,  to  lay  up  great  stores,  to  possess  the  sweet  of  every 
flower  that  blooms.  She  is  more  than  provident.  Enough 
will  not  satisfy  her;  she  must  have  all  she  can  get  by  hook 

331 


332  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

or  by  crook.  She  comes  from  the  oldest  country,  Asia, 
and  thrives  best  in  the  most  fertile  and  long-settled 
lands. 

Yet  the  fact  remains  that  the  honey-bee  is  essentially  a 
wild  creature,  and  never  has  been  and  cannot  be  thor 
oughly  domesticated.  Its  proper  home  is  the  woods, 
and  thither  every  new  swarm  counts  on  going;  and  thither 
many  do  go  in  spite  of  the  care  and  watchfulness  of  the 
bee-keeper.  If  the  woods  in  any  given  locality  are  deficient 
in  trees  with  suitable  cavities,  the  bees  resort  to  all  sorts 
of  makeshifts;  they  go  into  chimneys,  into  barns  and  out 
houses,  under  stones,  into  rocks,  and  so  forth.  Several 
chimneys  in  my  locality  with  disused  flues  are  taken  pos 
session  of  by  colonies  of  bees  nearly  every  season.  One 
day,  while  bee-hunting,  I  developed  a  line  that  went  toward 
a  farmhouse  where  I  had  reason  to  believe  no  bees  were 
kept.  I  followed  it  up  and  questioned  the  farmer  about 
his  bees.  He  said  he  kept  no  bees,  but  that  a  swarm  had 
taken  possession  of  his  chimney,  and  another  had  gone  under 
the  clapboards  iri  the  gable  end  of  his  house.  He  had 
taken  a  large  lot  of  honey  out  of  both  places  the  year  before. 
Another  farmer  told  me  that  one  day  his  family  had  seen 
a  number  of  bees  examining  a  knothole  in  the  side  of  his 
house;  the  next  day,  as  they  were  sitting  down  to  dinner, 
their  attention  was  attracted  by  a  loud  humming  noise,  when 
they  discovered  a  swarm  of  bees  settling  upon  the  side  of 
the  house  and  pouring  into  the  knothole.  In  subsequent 
years  other  swarms  came  to  the  same  place. 

Apparently  every  swarm  of  bees,  before  it  leaves  the 
parent  hive,  sends  out  exploring  parties  to  look  up  the 
future  home.  The  woods  and  groves  are  searched  through 
and  through,  and  no  doubt  the  privacy  of  many  a  squirrel 
and  many  a  wood-mouse  is  intruded  upon.  What  cozy 
nooks  and  retreats  they  do  spy  out,  so  much  more  attractive 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HONEY-BEE  333 

than  the  painted  hive  in  the  garden,  so  much  cooler  in  sum 
mer  and  so  much  warmer  in  winter! 

The  bee  is  in  the  main  an  honest  citizen:  she  prefers 
legitimate  to  illegitimate  business;  she  is  never  an  outlaw 
until  her  proper  sources  of  supply  fail;  she  will  not  touch 
honey  as  long  as  honey  yielding  flowers  can  be  found; 
she  always  prefers  to  go  to  the  fountain-head,  and  dislikes 
to  take  her  sweets  at  second  hand.  But  in  the  fall,  after 
the  flowers  have  failed,  she  can  be  tempted.  The  bee-hunter 
takes  advantage  of  this  fact;  he  betrays  her  with  a  little 
honey.  He  wants  to  steal  her  stores,  and  he  first  encour 
ages  her  to  steal  his,  then  follows  the  thief  home  with  her 
booty.  This  is  the  whole  trick  of  the  bee-hunter.  The  bees 
never  suspect  his  game,  else  by  taking  a  circuitous  route 
they  could  easily  baffle  him.  But  the  honey-bee  has  abso 
lutely  no  wit  or  cunning  outside  of  her  special  gifts  as  a 
gatherer  and  storer  of  honey.  She  is  a  simple-minded 
creature,  and  can  be  imposed  upon  by  any  novice.  Yet  it 
is  not  every  novice  that  can  find  a  bee-tree.  The  sportsman 
may  track  his  game  to  its  retreat  by  the  aid  of  his  dog,  but 
in  hunting  the  honey-bee  one  must  be  his  own  dog,  and 
track  his  game  through  an  element  in  which  it  leaves  no 
trail.  It  is  a  task  for  a  sharp,  quick  eye,  and  may  test  the 
resources  of  the  best  woodcraft.  One  autumn,  when  I 
devoted  much  time  to  this  pursuit,  as  the  best  means  of 
getting  at  nature  and  the  open-air  exhilaration,  my  eye  be 
came  so  trained  that  bees  were  nearly  as  easy  to  it  as 
birds.  I  saw  and  heard  bees  wherever  I  went.  One  day, 
standing  on  a  street  corner  in  a  great  city,  I  saw  above 
the  trucks  and  the  traffic  a  line  of  bees  carrying  off  sweets 
from  some  grocery  or  confectionery  shop. 

One  looks  upon  the  woods  with  a  new  interest  when 
he  suspects  they  hold  a  colony  of  bees.  What  a  pleasing 
secret  it  is, — a  tree  with  a  heart  of  comb  honey,  a  decayed 


334  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

oak  or  maple  with  a  bit  of  Sicily  or  Mount  Hymettus  stowed 
away  in  its  trunk  or  branches;  secret  chambers  where  lies 
hidden  the  wealth  of  ten  thousand  little  freebooters,  great 
nuggets  and  wedges  of  precious  ore  gathered  with  risk  and 
labor  from  every  field  and  wood  about! 

But  if  you  would  know  the  delights  of  bee-hunting,  and 
how  many  sweets  such  a  trip  yields  beside  honey,  come 
with  me  some  bright,  warm,  late  September  or  early  Oc 
tober  day.  It  is  the  golden  season  of  the  year,  and  any 
errand  or  pursuit  that  takes  us  abroad  upon  the  hills  or 
by  the  painted  woods  and  along  the  amber-colored  streams 
at  such  a  time  is  enough.  So,  with  haversacks  filled  with 
grapes  and  peaches  and  apples  and  a  bottle  of  milk, — for 
we  shall  not  be  home  to  dinner, — and  armed  with  a  com 
pass,  a  hatchet,  a  pail,  and  a  box  with  a  piece  of  comb 
honey  neatly  fitted  into  it, — any  box  the  size  of  your  hand 
with  a  lid  will  do  nearly  as  well  as  the  elaborate  and 
ingenious  contrivance  of  the  regular  bee-hunter, — we  sally 
forth.  Our  course  at  first  lies  along  the  highway  under 
great  chestnut-trees  whose  nuts  are  just  dropping,  then 
through  an  orchard  and  across  a  little  creek,  thence  gently 
rising  through  a  long  series  of  cultivated  fields  toward  some 
high  uplying  land  behind  which  rises  a  rugged  wooded  ridge 
or  mountain,  the  most  sightly  point  in  all  this  section.  Be 
hind  this  ridge  for  several  miles  the  country  is  wild,  wooded, 
and  rocky,  and  is  no  doubt  the  home  of  many  wild  swarms 
of  bees.  What  a  gleeful  uproar  the  robins,  cedar -birds, 
high-holes,  and  cow  blackbirds  make  amid  the  black  cherry 
trees  as  we  pass  along !  The  raccoons,  too,  have  been  here 
after  black  cherries,  and  we  see  their  marks  at  various 
points.  Several  crows  are  walking  about  a  newly  sowed 
wheatfield  we  pass  through,  and  we  pause  to  note  their 
graceful  movements  and  glossy  coats.  I  have  seen  no  bird 
walk  the  ground  with  just  the  same  air  the  crow  does.  It 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HONEY-BEE  335 

is  not  exactly  pride;  there  is  no  strut  or  swagger  in  it, 
though  perhaps  just  a  little  condescension;  it  is  the  con 
tented,  complaisant,  and  self-possessed  gait  of  a  lord  over 
his  domains.  All  these  acres  are  mine,  he  says,  and  all 
these  crops ;  men  plow  and  sow  for  me,  and  I  stay  here 
or  go  there,  and  find  life  sweet  and  good  wherever  I  am. 
The  hawk  looks  awkward  and  out  of  place  on  the  ground ; 
the  game-birds  hurry  and  skulk;  but  the  crow  is  at  home, 
and  treads  the  earth  as  if  there  were  none  to  molest  or 
make  him  afraid. 

The  crows  we  have  always  with  us,  but  it  is  not  every 
day  or  every  season  that  one  sees  an  eagle.  Hence  I  must 
preserve  the  memory  of  one  I  saw  the  last  day  I  went  bee- 
hunting.  As  I  was  laboring  up  the  side  of  a  mountain 
at  the  head  of  a  valley,  the  noble  bird  sprang  from  the  top 
of  a  dry  tree  above  me  and  came  sailing  directly  over  my 
head.  I  saw  him  bend  his  eye  down  upon  me,  and  I  could 
hear  the  low  hum  of  his  plumage  as  if  the  web  of  every 
quill  in  his  great  wings  vibrated  in  his  strong,  level  flight. 
I  watched  him  as  long  as  my  eye  could  hold  him.  When  he 
was  fairly  clear  of  the  mountain  he  began  that  sweeping  spiral 
movement  in  which  he  climbs  the  sky.  Up  and  up  he  went, 
without  once  breaking  his  majestic  poise,  till  he  appeared 
to  sight  some  far-off  alien  geography,  when  he  bent  his 
course  thitherward  and  gradually  vanished  in  the  blue 
depths.  The  eagle  is  a  bird  of  large  ideas ;  he  embraces  long 
distances ;  the  continent  is  his  home.  I  never  look  upon 
one  without  emotion ;  I  follow  him  with  my  eye  as  long 
as  I  can.  I  think  of  Canada,  of  the  Great  Lakes,  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  of  the  wild  and  sounding  seacoast.  The 
waters  are  his,  and  the  woods  and  the  inaccessible  cliffs. 
He  pierces  behind  the  veil  of  the  storm,  and  his  joy  is  height 
and  depth  and  vast  spaces. 

We  go  out  of  our  way  to  touch  at  a  spring  run  in  the 


336  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

edge  of  the  woods,  and  are  lucky  to  find  a  single  scarlet 
lobelia  lingering  there.  It  seems  almost  to  light  up  the 
gloom  with  its  intense  bit  of  color.  Beside  a  ditch  in  a 
field  beyond,  we  find  the  great  blue  lobelia,  and  near  it, 
amid  the  weeds  and  wild  grasses  and  purple  asters,  the 
most  beautiful  of  our  fall  flowers,  the  fringed  gentian. 
What  a  rare  and  delicate,  almost  aristocratic  look  the 
gentian  has  amid  its  coarse,  unkempt  surroundings !  It 
does  not  lure  the  bee,  but  it  lures  and  holds  every  passing 
human  eye.  If  we  strike  through  the  corner  of  yonder 
woods,  where  the  ground  is  moistened  by  hidden  springs, 
and  where  there  is  a  little  opening  amid  the  trees,  we  shall 
find  the  closed  gentian,  a  rare  flower  in  this  locality.  I  had 
walked  this  way  many  times  before  I  chanced  upon  its 
retreat,  and  then  I  was  following  a  line  of  bees.  I  lost 
the  bees,  but  I  got  the  gentians.  How  curious  this  flower 
looks  with  its  deep  blue  petals  folded  together  so  tightly, — 
a  bud  and  yet  a  blossom!  It  is  the  nun  among  our  wild 
flowers, — a  form  closely  veiled  and  cloaked.  The  buccaneer 
bumblebee  sometimes  tries  to  rifle  it  of  its  sweets.  I  have 
seen  the  blossom  with  the  bee  entombed  in  it.  He  had 
forced  his  way  into  the  virgin  corolla  as  if  determined  to 
know  its  secret,  but  he  had  never  returned  with  the  knowl 
edge  he  had  gained. 

After  a  refreshing  walk  of  a  couple  of  miles  we  reach 
a  point  where  we  will  make  our  first  trial, — a  high  stone 
wall  that  runs  parallel  with  the  wooded  ridge  referred  to, 
and  separated  from  it  by  a  broad  field.  There  are  bees 
at  work  there  on  that  goldenrod,  and  it  requires  but  little 
manoeuvering  to  sweep  one  into  our  box.  Almost  any  other 
creature  rudely  and  suddenly  arrested  in  its  career,  and 
clapped  into  a  cage  in  this  way,  would  show  great  confu 
sion  and  alarm.  The  bee  is  alarmed  for  a  moment,  but 
the  bee  has  a  passion  stronger  than  its  love  of  life  or  fear 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HONEY-BEE  337 

of  death,  namely,  desire  for  honey,  not  simply  to  eat,  but 
to  carry  home  as  booty.  "  Such  rage  of  honey  in  their 
bosom  beats,"  says  Virgil.  It  is  quick  to  catch  the  scent 
of  honey  in  the  box,  and  as  quick  to  fall  to  filling  itself. 
We  now  set  the  box  down  upon  the  wall  and  gently  remove 
the  cover.  The  bee  is  head  and  shoulders  in  one  of  the 
half-filled  cells,  and  is  oblivious  to  everything  else  about 
it.  Come  rack,  come  ruin,  it  will  die  at  work.  We  step 
back  a  few  paces,  and  sit  down  upon  the  ground  so  as 
to  bring  the  box  against  the  blue  sky  as  a  background.  In 
two  or  three  minutes  the  bee  is  seen  rising  slowly  and 
heavily  from  the  box.  It  seems  loath  to  leave  so  much 
honey  behind,  and  it  marks  the  place  well.  It  mounts  aloft 
in  a  rapidly  increasing  spiral,  surveying  the  near  and 
minute  objects  first,  then  the  larger  and  more  distant,  till, 
having  circled  above  the  spot  five  or  six  times  and  taken 
all  its  bearings,  it  darts  away  for  home.  It  is  a  good  eye 
that  holds  fast  to  the  bee  till  it  is  fairly  off.  Sometimes 
one's  head  will  swim  following  it,  and  often  one's  eyes  are 
put  out  by  the  sun.  This  bee  gradually  drifts  down  the 
hill,  then  strikes  away  toward  a  farmhouse  half  a  mile 
away  where  I  know  bees  are  kept.  Then  we  try  another 
and  another,  and  the  third  bee,  much  to  our  satisfaction, 
goes  straight  toward  the  woods.  We  could  see  the  brown 
speck  against  the  darker  background  for  many  yards.  The 
regular  bee-hunter  professes  to  be  able  to  tell  a  wild  bee 
from  a  tame  one  by  the  color,  the  former,  he  says,  being 
lighter.  But  there  is  no  difference;  they  are  both  alike 
in  color  and  in  manner.  Young  bees  are  lighter  than  old, 
and  that  is  all  there  is  of  it.  If  a  bee  lived  many  years 
in  the  woods  it  would  doubtless  come  to  have  some  distin 
guishing  marks,  but  the  life  of  a  bee  is  only  a  few  months 
at  the  farthest,  and  no  change  is  wrought  in  this  brief  time. 
Our  bees  are  all  soon  back,  and  more  with  them,  for  we 


338  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

have  touched  the  box  here  and  there  with  the  cork  of  a 
bottle  of  anise  oil,  arid  this  fragrant  and  pungent  oil  will 
attract  bees  half  a  mile  or  more.  When  no  flowers  can  be 
found,  this  is  the  quickest  way  to  obtain  a  bee. 

It  is  a  singular  fact  that  when  the  bee  first  finds  the 
hunter's  box,  its  first  feeling  is  one  of  anger ;  it  is  as  mad  as  a 
hornet ;  its  tone  changes,  it  sounds  its  shrill  war  trumpet  and 
darts  to  and  fro,  and  gives  vent  to  its  rage  and  indignation 
in  no  uncertain  manner.  It  seems  to  scent  foul  play  at 
once.  It  says,  "  Here  is  robbery ;  here  is  the  spoil  of  some 
hive,  may  be  my  own,"  and  its  blood  is  up.  But  its  ruling 
passion  soon  comes  to  the  surface,  its  avarice  gets  the  better 
of  its  indignation,  and  it  seems  to  say,  "  Well,  I  had  better 
take  possession  of  this  and  carry  it  home."  So  after  many 
feints  and  approaches  and  dartings  off  with  a  loud  angry 
hum  as  if  it  would  none  of  it,  the  bee  settles  down  and  fills 
itself. 

It  does  not  entirely  cool  off  and  get  soberly  to  work  till 
it  has  made  two  or  three  trips  home  with  its  booty.  When 
other  bees  come,  even  if  all  from  the  same  swarm,  they 
quarrel  and  dispute  over  the  box,  and  clip  and  dart  at  each 
other  like  bantam  cocks.  Apparently  the  ill  feeling  which 
the  sight  of  the  honey  awakens  is  not  one  of  jealousy  or 
rivalry,  but  wrath. 

A  bee  will  usually  make  three  or  four  trips  from  the 
hunter's  box  before  it  brings  back  a  companion.  I  suspect 
the  bee  does  not  tell  its  fellows  what  it  has  found,  but  that 
they  smell  out  the  secret;  it  doubtless  bears  some  evidence 
with  it  upon  its  feet  or  proboscis  that  it  has  been  upon 
honeycomb  and  not  upon  flowers,  and  its  companions  take 
the  hint  and  follow,  arriving  always  many  seconds  behind. 
Then  the  quantity  and  quality  of  the  booty  would  also 
betray  it.  No  doubt,  also,  there  are  plenty  of  gossips  about 
a  hive  that  note  and  tell  everything,  "  Oh,  did  you  see 


AN  IQYL  OF  THE  HONEY-BEE  339 

that?  Peggy  Mel  came  in  a  few  moments  ago  in  great 
haste,  and  one  of  the  upstairs  packers  says  she  was  loaded 
till  she  groaned -with  apple-blossom  honey,  which  she  de 
posited,  and  then  rushed  off  again  like  mad.  Apple-blossom 
honey  in  October !  Fee,  fi,  fo,  fum !  I  smell  something ! 
Let's  after." 

In  about  half  an  hour  we  have  three  well-defined  lines 
of  bees  established, — two  to  farmhouses  and  one  to  the 
woods,  and  our  box  is  being  rapidly  depleted  of  its  honey. 
About  every  fourth  bee  goes  to  the  woods,  and  now  that 
they  have  learned  the  way  thoroughly  they  do  not  make 
the  long  preliminary  whirl  above  the  box,  but  start  directly 
from  it.  The  woods  are  rough  and  dense  and  the  hill 
steep,  and  we  do  not  like  to  follow  the  line  of  bees  until 
we  have  tried  at  least  to  settle  the  problem  as  to  the  distance 
they  go  into  the  woods, — whether  the  tree  is  on  this  side 
of  the  ridge  or  into  the  depth  of  the  forest  on  the  other 
side.  So  we  shut  up  the  box  when  it  is  full  of  bees  and 
carry  it  about  three  hundred  yards  along  the  wall  from 
which  we  are  operating.  When  liberated,  the  bees,  as  they 
always  will  in  such  cases,  go  off  in  the  same  directions  they 
have  been  going;  they  do  not  seem  to  know  that  they  have 
been  moved.  But  other  bees  have  followed  our  scent, 
and  it  is  not  many  minutes  before  a  second  line  to  the 
woods  is  established.  This  is  called  cross-lining  the  bees. 
The  new  line  makes  a  sharp  angle  with  the  other  line,  and 
we  know  at  once  that  the  tree  is  only  a  few  rods  into  the 
woods.  The  two  lines  we  have  established  form  two  sides 
of  a  triangle  of  which  the  wall  is  the  base ;  at  the  apex  of 
the  triangle,  or  where  the  two  lines  meet  in  the  woods,  we 
are  sure  to  find  the  tree.  We  quickly  follow  up  these  lines, 
and  where  they  cross  each  other  on  the  side  of  the  hill  we 
scan  every  tree  closely.  I  pause  at  the  foot  of  an  oak  and 
examine  a  hole  near  the  root;  now  the  bees  are  in  this  tree 


34O  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

and  their  entrance  is  on  the  upper  side  near  the  ground  not 
two  feet  from  the  hole  I  peer  into,  and  yet  so  quiet  and 
secret  is  their  going  and  coming  that  I  fail  to  discover  them 
and  pass  on  up  the  hill.  Failing  in  this  direction  I  return 
to  the  oak  again,  and  then  perceive  the  bees  going  out  in 
a  small  crack  in  the  tree.  The  bees  do  not  know  they  are 
found  out  and  that  the  game  is  in  our  hands,  and  are  as 
oblivious  of  our  presence  as  if  we  were  ants  or  crickets. 
The  indications  are  that  the  swarm  is  a  small  one,  and  the 
store  of  honey  trifling.  In  "  taking  up  ''  a  bee-tree  it  is 
usual  first  to  kill  or  stupefy  the  bees  with  the  fumes  of 
burning  sulphur  or  with  tobacco  smoke.  But  this  course 
is  impracticable  on  the  present  occasion,  so  we  boldly  and 
ruthlessly  assault  the  tree  with  an  ax  we  have  procured. 
At  the  first  blow  the  bees  set  up  a  loud  buzzing,  but  we 
have  no  mercy,  and  the  side  of  the  cavity  is  soon  cut  away 
and  the  interior  with  its  white-yellow  mass  of  comb  honey 
is  exposed,  and  not  a  bee  strikes  a  blow  in  defense  of  its 
all.  This  may  seem  singular,  but  it  has  nearly  always  been 
my  experience.  When  a  swarm  of  bees  are  thus  rudely 
assaulted  with  an  ax  they  evidently  think  the  end  of  the 
world  has  come,  and,  like  true  misers  as  they  are,  each  one 
seizes  as  much  of  the  treasure  as  it  can  hold ;  in  other 
words,  they  all  fall  to  and  gorge  themselves  with  honey, 
and  calmly  await  the  issue.  While  in  this  condition  they 
make  no  defense,  and  will  not  sting  unless  taken  hold  of. 
In  fact  they  are  as  harmless  as  flies.  Bees  are  always  to  be 
managed  with  boldness  and  decision.  Any  half-way  meas 
ures,  any  timid  poking  about,  any  feeble  attempts  to  reach 
their  honey,  are  sure  to  be  quickly  resented.  The  popular 
notion  that  bees  have  a  special  antipathy  toward  certain 
persons  and  a  liking  for  certain  others  has  only  this  fact 
at  the  bottom  of  it:  they  will  sting  a  person  who  is  afraid 
of  them  and  goes  skulking  and  dodging  about,  and  they  will 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HONEY-BEE  341 

not  sting  a  person  who  faces  them  boldly  and  has  no  dread 
of  them.  They  are  like  dogs.  The  way  to  disarm  a  vicious 
dog  is  to  show  him  you  do  not  fear  him ;  it  is  his  turn  to 
be  afraid  then.  I  never  had  any  dread  of  bees  and  am 
seldom  stung  by  them.  I  have  climbed  up  into  a  large 
chestnut  that  contained  a  swarm  in  one  of  its  cavities  and 
chopped  them  out  with  an  ax,  being  obliged  at  times  to 
pause  and  brush  the  bewildered  bees  from  my  hands  and 
face,  and  not  been  stung  once.  I  have  chopped  a  swarm 
out  of  an  apple-tree  in  June,  and  taken  out  the  cards  of 
honey  and  arranged  them  in  a  hive,  and  then  dipped  out 
the  bees  with  a  dipper,  and  taken  the  whole  home  with  me 
in  pretty  good  condition,  with  scarcely  any  opposition  on 
the  part  of  the  bees.  In  reaching  your  hand  into  the  cavity 
to  detach  and  remove  the  comb  you  are  pretty  sure  to  get 
stung,  for  when  you  touch  the  "  business  end  "  of  a  bee, 
it  will  sting  even  though  its  head  be  off.  But  the  bee  carries 
the  antidote  to  its  own  poison.  The  best  remedy  for  bee 
sting  is  honey,  and  when  your  hands  are  besmeared  with 
honey,  as  they  are  sure  to  be  on  such  occasions,  the  wound 
is  scarcely  more  painful  than  the  prick  of  a  pin.  Assault 
your  bee-tree,  then,  boldly  with  your  ax,  and  you  will  find 
that  when  the  honey  is  exposed  every  bee  has  surrendered 
and  the  whole  swarm  is  cowering  in  helpless  bewilder 
ment  and  terror.  Our  tree  yields  only  a  few  pounds  of 
honey,  not  enough  to  have  lasted  the  swarm  till  January, 
but  no  matter :  we  have  the  less  burden  to  carry. 

In  the  afternoon  we  go  nearly  half  a  mile  farther  along 
the  ridge  to  a  cornfield  that  lies  immediately  in  front  of 
the  highest  point  of  the  mountain.  The  view  is  superb ; 
the  ripe  autumn  landscape  rolls  away  to  the  east,  cut  through 
by  the  great  placid  river;  in  the  extreme  north  the  wall  of 
the  Catskills  stands  out  clear  and  strong,  while  in  the  south 
the  mountains  of  the  Highlands  bound  the  view.  The  day 


342  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

is  warm,  and  the  bees  are  very  busy  there  in  that  neglected 
corner  of  the  field,  rich  in  asters,  fleabane,  and  goldenrod. 
The  corn  has  been  cut,  and  upon  a  stout  but  a  few  rods 
from  the  woods,  which  here  drop  quickly  down  from  the 
precipitous  heights,  we  set  up  our  bee-box,  touched  again 
with  the  pungent  oil.  In  a  few  moments  a  bee  has  found 
it ;  she  comes  up  to  leeward,  following  the  scent.  On 
leaving  the  box,  she  goes  straight  toward  the  woods.  More 
bees  quickly  come,  and  it  is  not  long  before  the  line  is  well 
established.  Now  we  have  recourse  to  the  same  tactics  we 
employed  before,  and  move  along  the  ridge  to  another 
field  to  get  our  cross  line.  But  the  bees  still  go  in  almost 
the  same  direction  they  did  from  the  corn  stout.  The  tree 
is  then  either  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  or  on  the  other 
or  west  side  of  it.  We  hesitate  to  make  the  plunge  into 
the  woods  and  seek  to  scale  those  precipices,  for  the  eye 
can  plainly  see  what  is  before  us.  As  the  afternoon  sun 
gets  lower,  the  bees  are  seen  with  wonderful  distinctness. 
They  fly  toward  and  under  the  sun,  and  are  in  a  strong 
light,  while  the  near  woods  which  form  the  background  are 
in  deep  shadow.  They  look  like  large  luminous  motes. 
Their  swiftly  vibrating,  transparent  wings  surround  their 
bodies  with  a  shining  nimbus  that  makes  them  visible  for 
a  long  distance.  They  seem  magnified  many  times.  We 
see  them  bridge  the  little  gulf  between  us  and  the  woods, 
then  rise  up  over  the  treetops  with  their  burdens,  swerving 
neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  to  the  left.  It  is  almost 
pathetic  to  see  them  labor  so,  climbing  the  mountain  and 
unwittingly  guiding  us  to  their  treasures.  When  the  sun 
gets  down  so  that  his  direction  corresponds  exactly  with 
the  course  of  the  bees,  we  make  the  plunge.  It  proves  even 
harder  climbing  than  we  had  anticipated ;  the  mountain  is 
faced  by  a  broken  and  irregular  wall  of  rock,  up  which 
we  pull  ourselves  slowly  and  cautiously  by  main  strength. 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HONEY-BEE  343 

In  half  an  hour,  the  perspiration  streaming  from  every 
pore,  we  reach  the  summit.  The  trees  here  are  all  small, 
a  second  growth,  and  we  are  soon  convinced  the  bees  are 
not  here.  Then  down  we  go  on  the  other  side,  clambering 
down  the  rocky  stairways  till  we  reach  quite  a  broad  plateau 
that  forms  something  like  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain. 
On  the  brink  of  this  there  are  many  large  hemlocks,  and 
we  scan  them  closely  and  rap  upon  them  with  our  ax. 
But  not  a  bee  is  seen  or  heard ;  we  do  not  seem  as  near 
the  tree  as  we  were  in  the  fields  below ;  yet,  if  some  divinity 
would  only  whisper  the  fact  to  us,  we  are  within  a  few 
rods  of  the  coveted  prize,  which  is  not  in  one  of  the  large 
hemlocks  or  oaks  that  absorb  our  attention,  but  in  an  old 
stub  or  stump  not  six  feet  high,  and  which  we  have  seen 
and  passed  several  times  without  giving  it  a  thought.  We 
go  farther  down  the  mountain  and  beat  about  to  the  right 
and  left,  and  get  entangled  in  brush  and  arrested  by  preci 
pices,  and  finally,  as  the  day  is  nearly  spent,  give  up  the 
search  and  leave  the  woods  quite  baffled,  but  resolved  to  re 
turn  on  the  morrow.  The  next  day  we  come  back  and  com 
mence  operations  in  an  opening  in  the  woods  well  down  on 
the  side  of  the  mountain  where  we  gave  up  the  search.  Our 
box  is  soon  swarming  with  the  eager  bees,  and  they  go  back 
toward  the  summit  we  have  passed.  We  follow  back  and 
establish  a  new  line,  where  the  ground  will  permit;  then 
another  and  still  another,  and  yet  the  riddle  is  not  solved. 
One  time  we  are  south  of  them,  then  north,  then  the  bees 
get  up  through  the  trees  and  we  cannot  tell  where  they  go. 
But  after  much  searching,  and  after  the  mystery  seems 
rather  to  deepen  than  to  clear  up,  we  chance  to  pause  beside 
the  old  stump.  A  bee  comes  out  of  a  small  opening  like 
that  made  by  ants  in  decayed  wood,  rubs  its  eyes  and  ex 
amines  its  antennae,  as  bees  always  do  before  leaving  their 
hive,  then  takes  flight.  At  the  same  instant  several  bees 


344  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

come  by  us  loaded  with  our  honey  and  settle  home  with 
that  peculiar  low,  complacent  buzz  of  the  well-filled  insect. 
Here,  then,  is  our  idyl,  our  bit  of  Virgil  and  Theocritus, 
in  a  decayed  stump  of  a  hemlock-tree.  We  could  tear  it 
open  with  our  hands,  and  a  bear  would  find  it  an  easy  prize, 
and  a  rich  one,  too,  for  we  take  from  it  fifty  pounds  of  ex 
cellent  honey.  The  bees  have  been  here  many  years,  and 
have  of  course  sent  out  swarm  after  swarm  into  the  wilds. 
They  have  protected  themselves  against  the  weather  and 
strengthened  their  shaky  habitation  by  a  copious  use  of 
wax. 

When  a  bee-tree  is  thus  "  taken  up  "  in  the  middle  of 
the  day,  of  course  a  good  many  bees  are  away  from  home 
and  have  not  heard  the  news.  When  they  return  and  find 
the  ground  flowing  with  honey,  and  piles  of  bleeding  combs 
lying  about,  they  apparently  do  not  recognize  the  place,  and 
their  first  instinct  is  to  fall  to  and  fill  themselves ;  this  done, 
their  next  thought  is  to  carry  it  home,  so  they  rise  up  slowly 
through  the  branches  of  the  trees  till  they  have  attained  an 
altitude  that  enables  them  to  survey  the  scene,  when  they 
seem  to  say,  "  Why,  this  is  home,"  and  down  they  come 
again ;  beholding  the  wreck  and  ruins  once  more,  they  still 
think  there  is  some  mistake,  and  get  up  a  second  or  a  third 
time  and  then  drop  back  pitifully  as  before.  It  is  the  most 
pathetic  sight  of  all,  the  surviving  and  bewildered  bees 
struggling  to  save  a  few  drops  of  their  wasted  treasures. 

Presently,  if  there  is  another  swarm  in  the  woods,  robber 
bees  appear.  You  may  know  them  by  their  saucy,  chiding, 
devil-may-care  hum.  It  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody 
good,  and  they  make  the  most  of  the  misfortune  of  their 
neighbors,  and  thereby  pave  the  way  for  their  own  ruin. 
The  hunter  marks  their  course  and  the  next  day  looks 
them  up.  On  this  occasion  the  day  was  hot  and  the  honey 
very  fragrant,  and  a  line  of  bees  was  soon  established 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HONEY-BEE  345 

S.  S.  W.  Though  there  was  much  refuse  honey  in  the  old 
stub,  and  though  little  golden  rills  trickled  down  the  hill 
from  it,  and  the  near  branches  and  saplings  were  besmeared 
with  it  where  we  wiped  our  murderous  hands,  yet  not  a  drop 
was  wasted.  It  was  a  feast  to  which  not  only  honey-bees 
came,  but  bumblebees,  wasps,  hornets,  flies,  ants.  The 
bumblebees,  which  at  this  season  are  hungry  vagrants  with 
no  fixed  place  of  abode,  would  gorge  themselves,  then  creep 
beneath  the  bits  of  empty  comb  or  fragments  of  bark  and 
pass  the  night,  and  renew  the  feast  next  day.  The  bumble 
bee  is  an  insect  of  which  the  bee-hunter  sees  much.  There 
are  all  sorts  and  sizes  of  them.  They  are  dull  and  clumsy 
compared  with  the  honey-bee.  Attracted  in  the  fields  by 
the  bee-hunter's  box,  they  will  come  up  the  wind  on  the 
scent  and  blunder  into  it  in  the  most  stupid,  lubberly 
fashion. 

The  honey-bees  that  licked  up  our  leavings  on  the  old 
stub  belonged  to  a  swarm,  as  it  proved,  about  half  a  mile 
farther  down  the  ridge,  and  a  few  days  afterward  fate 
overtook  them,  and  their  stores  in  turn  became  the  prey 
of  another  swarm  in  the  vicinity,  which  also  tempted  Provi 
dence  and  were  overwhelmed.  The  first-mentioned  swarm 
I  had  lined  from  several  points,  and  was  following  up  the 
clew  over  rocks  and  through  gulleys,  when  I  came  to  where 
a  large  hemlock  had  been  felled  a  few  years  before,  and 
a  swarm  taken  from  a  cavity  near  the  top  of  it ;  fragments 
of  the  old  comb  were  yet  to  be  seen.  A  few  yards  away 
stood  another  short,  squatty  hemlock,  and  I  said  my  bees 
ought  to  be  there.  As  I  paused  near  it,  I  noticed  where 
the  tree  had  been  wounded  with  an  ax  a  couple  of  feet 
from  the  ground  many  years  before.  The  wound  had  par 
tially  grown  over,  but  there  was  an  opening  there  that  I 
did  not  see  at  the  first  glance.  I  was  about  to  pass  on  when 
a  bee  passed  me  making  that  peculiar  shrill,  discordant  hum 


346  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

that  a  bee  makes  when  besmeared  with  honey.  I  saw  it 
alight  in  the  partially  closed  wound  and  crawl  home;  then 
came  others  and  others,  little  bands  and  squads  of  them 
heavily  freighted  with  honey  from  the  box.  The  tree  was 
about  twenty  inches  through  and  hollow  at  the  butt,  or 
from  the  ax-mark  down.  This  space  the  bees  had  com 
pletely  filled  with  honey.  With  an  ax  we  cut  away  the  outer 
ring  of  live  wood  and  exposed  the  treasure.  Despite  the 
utmost  care,  we  wounded  the  comb  so  that  little  rills  of  the 
golden  liquid  issued  from  the  root  of  the  tree  and  trickled 
down  the  hill. 

The  other  bee-tree  in  the  vicinity  to  which  I  have  referred 
we  found  one  warm  November  day  in  less  than  half  an  hour 
after  entering  the  woods.  It  also  was  a  hemlock  that  stood 
in  a  niche  in  a  wall  of  hoary,  moss-covered  rocks  thirty  feet 
high.  The  tree  hardly  reached  to  the  top  of  the  precipice. 
The  bees  entered  a  small  hole  at  the  root,  which  was  seven 
or  eight  feet  from  the  ground.  The  position  was  a  striking 
one.  Never  did  apiary  have  a  finer  outlook  or  more  rugged 
surroundings.  A  black,  wood-embraced  lake  lay  at  our  feet ; 
the  long  panorama  of  the  Catskills  filled  the  far  distance, 
and  the  more  broken  outlines  of  the  Shawangunk  range 
filled  the  rear.  On  every  hand  were  precipices  and  a  wild 
confusion  of  rocks  and  trees. 

The  cavity  occupied  by  the  bees  was  about  three  feet 
and  a  half  long  and  eight  or  ten  inches  in  diameter.  With 
an  ax  we  cut  away  one  side  of  the  tree,  and  laid  bare  its 
curiously  wrought  heart  of  honey.  It  was  a  most  pleasing 
sight.  What  winding  and  devious  ways  the  bees  had 
through  their  palace !  What  great  masses  and  blocks  of 
snow-white  comb  there  were !  Where  it  was  sealed  up, 
presenting  that  slightly  dented,  uneven  surface,  it  looked 
like  some  precious  ore.  When  we  carried  a  large  pailful 
of  it  out  of  the  woods  it  seemed  still  more  like  ore. 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HONEY-BEE  347 

Your  native  bee-hunter  predicates  the  distance  of  the  tree 
by  the  time  the  bee  occupies  in  making  its  first  trip.  But 
this  is  no  certain  guide.  You  are  always  safe  in  calculating 
that  the  tree  is  inside  of  a  mile,  and  you  need  not  as  a 
rule  look  for  your  bee's  return  under  ten  minutes.  One 
day  I  picked  up  a  bee  in  an  opening  in  the  woods  and  gave 
it  honey,  and  it  made  three  trips  to  my  box  with  an  interval 
of  about  twelve  minutes  between  them;  it  returned  alone 
each  time;  the  tree,  which  I  afterward  found,  was  about 
half  a  mile  distant. 

In  lining  bees  through  the  woods  the  tactics  of  the  hunter 
are  to  pause  every  twenty  or  thirty  rods,  lop  away  the 
branches  or  cut  down  the  trees,  and  set  the  bees  to  work 
again.  If  they  still  go  forward,  he  goes  forward  also  and 
repeats  his  observations  till  the  tree  is  found,  or  till  the 
bees  turn  and  come  back  upon  the  trail.  Then  he  knows 
he  has  passed  the  tree,  and  he  retraces  his  steps  to  a  con 
venient  distance  and  tries  again,  and  thus  quickly  reduces 
the  space  to  be  looked  over  till  the  swarm  is  traced  home. 
On  one  occasion,  in  a  wild  rocky  wood,  where  the  surface 
alternated  between  deep  gulfs  and  chasms  filled  with  thick, 
heavy  growths  of  timber  and  sharp,  precipitous,  rocky 
ridges  like  a  tempest-tossed  sea,  I  carried  my  bees  directly 
under  their  tree,  and  set  them  to  work  from  a  high,  exposed 
ledge  of  rocks  not  thirty  feet  distant.  One  would  have 
expected  them  under  such  circumstances  to  have  gone 
straight  home,  as  there  were  but  few  branches  intervening, 
but  they  did  not;  they  labored  up  through  the  trees  and 
attained  an  altitude  above  the  woods  as  if  they  had  miles 
to  travel,  and  thus  baffled  me  for  hours.  Bees  will  always 
do  this.  They  are  acquainted  with  the  woods  only  from 
the  top  side,  and  from  the  air  above;  they  recognize  home 
only  by  landmarks  here,  and  in  every  instance  they  rise  aloft 
to  take  their  bearings.  Think  how  familiar  to  them  the 


348  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

topography  of  the  forest  summits  must  be, — an  umbrageous 
sea  or  plain  where  every  mark  and  point  is  known. 

Another  curious  fact  is  that  generally  you  will  get  track 
of  a  bee-tree  sooner  when  you  are  half  a  mile  from  it  than 
when  you  are  only  a  few  yards.  Bees,  like  us  human  in 
sects,  have  little  faith  in  the  near  at  hand ;  they  expect  to 
make  their  fortune  in  a  distant  field,  they  are  lured  by  the 
remote  and  the  difficult,  and  hence  overlook  the  flower  and 
the  sweet  at  their  very  door.  On  several  occasions  I  have 
unwittingly  set  my  box  within  a  few  paces  of  a  bee-tree  and 
waited  long  for  bees  without  getting  them,  when,  on  remov 
ing  to  a  distant  field  or  opening  in  the  woods,  I  have  got  a 
clew  at  once. 

I  have  a  theory  that  when  bees  leave  the  hive,  unless 
there  is  some  special  attraction  in  some  other  direction,  they 
generally  go  against  the  wind.  They  would  thus  have  the 
wind  with  them  when  they  returned  home  heavily  laden, 
and  with  these  little  navigators  the  difference  is  an  im 
portant  one.  With  a  full  cargo,  a  stiff  head-wind  is  a  great 
hindrance,  but  fresh  and  empty-handed  they  can  face  it 
with  more  ease.  Virgil  says  bees  bear  gravel  stones  as 
ballast,  but  their  only  ballast  is  their  honey-bag.  Hence, 
when  I  go  bee-hunting,  I  prefer  to  get  to  windward 
of  the  woods  in  which  the  swarm  is  supposed  to  have 
refuge. 

Bees,  like  the  milkman,  like  to  be  near  a  spring.  They 
do  water  their  honey,  especially  in  a  dry  time.  The  liquid  is 
then  of  course  thicker  and  sweeter,  and  will  bear  diluting. 
Hence  old  bee-hunters  look  for  bee-trees  along  creeks  and 
near  spring  runs  in  the  woods.  I  once  found  a  tree  a  long 
distance  from  any  .water,  and  the  honey  had  a  peculiar 
bitter  flavor,  imparted  to  it,  I  was  convinced,  by  rainwater 
sucked  from  the  decayed  and  spongy  hemlock-tree  in  which 
the  swarm  was  found.  In  cutting  into  the  tree,  the  north 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HONEY-BEE  349 

side  of  it  was  found  to  be  saturated  with  water  like  a 
spring,  which  ran  out  in  big  drops,  and  had  a  bitter  flavor. 
The  bees  had  thus  found  a  spring  or  a  cistern  in  their 
own  house. 

Bees  are  exposed  to  many  hardships  and  many  dangers. 
Winds  and  storms  prove  as  disastrous  to  them  as  to  other 
navigators.  Black  spiders  lie  in  wait  for  them  as  do  brigands 
for  travelers.  One  day,  as  I  was  looking  for  a  bee  amid 
some  goldenrod,  I  spied  one  partly  concealed  under  a  leaf. 
Its  baskets  were  full  of  pollen,  and  it  did  not  move.  On 
lifting  up  the  leaf  I  discovered  that  a  hairy  spider  was  am 
bushed  there  and  had  the  bee  by  the  throat.  The  vampire 
was  evidently  afraid  of  the  bee's  sting,  and  was  holding  it 
by  the  throat  till  quite  sure  of  its  death.  Virgil  speaks  of 
the  painted  lizard,  perhaps  a  species  of  salamander,  as  an 
enemy  of  the  honey-bee.  We  have  no  lizard  that  destroys 
the  bee ;  but  our  tree-toad,  ambushed  among  the  apple  and 
cherry  blossoms,  snaps  them  up  wholesale.  Quick  as  light 
ning  that  subtle  but  clammy  tongue  darts  forth,  and  the 
unsuspecting  bee  is  gone.  Virgil  also  accuses  the  titmouse 
and  the  woodpecker  of  preying  upon  the  bees,  and  our 
kingbird  has  been  charged  with  the  like  crime,  but  the 
latter  devours  only  the  drones.  The  workers  are  either 
too  small  and  quick  for  it  or  else  it  dreads  their  sting. 

Virgil,  by  the  way,  had  little  more  than  a  child's  knowl 
edge  of  the  honey-bee.  There  is  little  fact  and  much  fable 
in  his  fourth  Georgic.  If  he  had  ever  kept  bees  himself, 
or  even  visited  an  apiary,  it  is  hard  to  see  how  he  could 
have  believed  that  the  bee  in  its  flight  abroad  carried  a  gravel 
stone  for  ballast. 


And  as  when  empty  barks  on  billows  float, 

With  sandy  ballast  sailors  trim  the  boat; 

So  bees  bear  gravel  ston^    i«Tio*o  poisinsr  weight 

Steers  through  the  whistl.n     winds  their  steady  flight;" 


350  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

or  that,  when  two  colonies  made  war  upon  each  other,  they 
issued  forth  from  their  hives  led  by  their  kings  and  fought 
in  the  air,  strewing  the  ground  with  the  dead  and  dying : — 

"Hard  hailstones  lie  not  thicker  on  the  plain, 
Nor  shaken  oaks  such  show'rs  of  acorns  rain." 

It  is  quite  certain  he  had  never  been  bee-hunting.  If  he 
had  we  should  have  had  a  fifth  Georgic.  Yet  he  seems 
to  have  known  that  bees  sometimes  escaped  to  the  woods : — 

"  Nor  bees  are  lodged  in  hives  alone,  but  found 
In  chambers  of  their  own  beneath  the  ground: 
Their  vaulted  roofs  are  hung  in  pumices, 
And  in  the  rotten  trunks  of  hollow  trees." 

Wild  honey  is  as  near  like  tame  as  wild  bees  are  like  their 
brothers  in  the  hive.  The  only  difference  is,  that  wild  honey 
is  flavored  with  your  adventure,  which  makes  it  a  little 
more  delectable  than  the  domestic  article. 


[From  Pepacton,  by  John  Burroughs.     Copyright,  1881,  1895,  and 
1909,  by  John  Burroughs.] 


CUT-OFF  COPPLES'S 
CLARENCE  KING 

ONE  October  day,  as  Kaweah  and  I  traveled  by  ourselves 
over  a  lonely  foothill  trail,  I  came  to  consider  myself  the 
friend  of  woodpeckers.  With  rather  more  reserve  as  re 
gards  the  bluejay,  let  me  admit  great  interest  in  his  worldly 
wisdom.  As  an  instance  of  co-operative  living  the  part 
nership  of  these  two  birds  is  rather  more  hopeful  than 
most  mundane  experiments.  For  many  autumn  and  winter 
months  such  food  as  their  dainty  taste  chooses  is  so  rare 
throughout  the  Sierras  that  in  default  of  any  climatic  temp 
tation  to  migrate  the  birds  get  in  harvests  with  annual 
regularity  and  surprising  labor.  Oak  and  pine  mingle  in 
open  growth.  Acorns  from  the  one  are  their  grain;  the 
soft  pine  bark  is  granary ;  and  this  the  process : 

Armies  of  woodpeckers  drill  small,  round  holes  in  the 
bark  of  standing  pine-trees,  sometimes  perforating  it  thickly 
up  to  twenty  or  thirty  and  even  forty  feet  above  the  ground ; 
then  about  equal  numbers  of  woodpeckers  and  jays  gather 
acorns,  rejecting  always  the  little  cup,  and  insert  the  gland 
tightly  in  the  pine  bark  with  its  tender  base  outward  and 
exposed  to  the  air. 

A  woodpecker,  having  drilled  a  hole,  has  its  exact  meas 
ure  in  mind,  and  after  examining  a  number  of  acorns  makes 
his  selection,  and  never  fails  of  a  perfect  fit.  Not  so  the 
jolly,  careless  jay,  who  picks  up  any  sound  acorn  he  finds, 
and,  if  it  is  too  large  for  a  hole,  drops  it  in  the  most  off 
hand  way  as  if  it  were  an  affair  of  no  consequence;  utters 

351 


352  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

one  of  his  dry,  chuckling  squawks,  and  either  tries  another 
or  loafs  about,  lazily  watching  the  hard-working  wood 
peckers. 

Thus  they  live,  amicably  harvesting,  and  with  this  sequel : 
those  acorns  in  which  grubs  form  become  the  sole  property 
of  woodpeckers,  while  all  sound  ones  fall  to  the  jays.  Ordi 
narily  chances  are  in  favor  of  woodpeckers,  and  when  there 
are  absolutely  no  sound  nuts  the  jays  sell  short,  to  to  speak, 
and  go  over  to  Nevada  and  speculate  in  juniper-berries. 

The  monotony  of  hill  and  glade  failing  to  interest  me, 
and  in  default  of  other  diversion,  I  all  day  long  watched  the 
birds,  recalling  how  many  gay  and  successful  jays  I  knew 
who  lived,  as  these,  on  the  wit  and  industry  of  less  osten 
tatious  woodpeckers;  thinking,  too,  what  naively  dogmatic 
and  richly  worded  political  economy  Mr.  Ruskin  would 
phrase  from  my  feathered  friends.  Thus  I  came  to  Ruskin, 
wishing  I  might  see  the  work  of  his  idol,  and  after  that 
longing  for  some  equal  artist  who  should  arise  and  choose 
to  paint  our  Sierras  as  they  are  with  all  their  color-glory, 
power  of  innumerable  pine  and  countless  pinnacle,  gloom 
of  tempest,  or  splendor,  where  rushing  light  shatters  itself 
upon  granite  crag,  or  burns  in  dying  rose  upon  far  fields 
of  snow. 

Had  I  rubbed  Aladdin's  lamp?  A  turn  in  the  trail 
brought  suddenly  into  view  a  man  who  sat  under  shadow 
of  oaks,  painting  upon  a  large  canvas. 

As  I  approached,  the  artist  turned  half  round  upon  his 
stool,  rested  palette  and  brushes  upon  one  knee,  and  in 
familiar  tone  said,  "  Dern'd  if  you  ain't  just  naturally 
ketched  me  at  it !  Get  off  and  set  down.  You  ain't  going 
for  no  doctor,  I  know." 

My  artist  was  of  short,  good-natured,  butcher-boy 
make-up,  dressed  in  what  had  formerly  been  black  broad 
cloth,  with  an  enlivening  show  of  red  flannel  shirt  about 


CUT-OFF  COPPLES'S  353 

the  throat,  wrists,  and  a  considerable  display  of  the  same 
where  his  waistcoat  might  once  have  overlapped  a  strained 
but  as  yet  coherent  waistband.  The  cut  of  these  garments, 
by  length  of  coat-tail  and  voluminous  leg,  proudly  asserted 
a  "  Bay  "  origin.  His  small  feet  were  squeezed  into  tight, 
short  boots,  with  high,  raking  heels. 

A  round  face,  with  small,  full  mouth,  non-committal  nose, 
and  black,  protruding  eyes,  showed  no  more  sign  of  the  ideal 
temperament  than  did  the  broad  daub  upon  his  square 
yard  of  canvas. 

"  Going  to  Copples's  ?  "  inquired  my  friend. 

That  was  my  destination,  and  I  answered,  "  Yes." 

"  That's  me/'  he  ejaculated.  "  Right  over  there,  down 
below  those  two  oaks  !  Ever  there  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  My  studio  's  there  now ;"  giving  impressive  accent  to 
the  word. 

All  the  while  these  few  words  were  passing  he  scruti 
nized  me  with  unconcealed  curiosity,  puzzled,  as  well  he 
might  be,  by  my  dress  and  equipment.  Finally,  after  I 
had  tied  Kaweah  to  a  tree  and  seated  myself  by  the  easel, 
and  after  he  had  absently  rubbed  some  raw  sienna  into 
his  little  store  of  white,  he  softly  ventured :  "  Was  you  look 
ing  out  a  ditch  ?  " 

*  No/'  I  replied. 

He  neatly  rubbed  up  the  white  and  sienna  with  his 
"  blender/'  unconsciously  adding  a  dash  of  Veronese  green, 
gazed  at  my  leggings,  then  at  the  barometer,  and  again 
meeting  my  eye  with  a  look  as  if  he  feared  I  might  be  a 
disguised  duke,  said  in  slow  tone,  with  hyphens  of  silence 
between  each  two  syllables,  giving  to  his  language  all  the 
dignity  of  an  unabridged  Webster,  "  I  would  take  pleasure 
in  stating  that  my  name  is  Hank  G.  Smith,  artist ;  " 
and,  seeing  me  smile,  he  relaxed  a  little,  and,  giving  the 


354  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

blender  another  vigorous  twist,  added,  "  I  would  request 
yours." 

Mr.  Smith  having  learned  my  name,  occupation,  and  that 
my  home  was  on  the  Hudson,  near  New  York,  quickly 
assumed  a  familiar  me-and-you-old-fel'  tone,  and  rattled 
on  merrily  about  his  winter  in  New  York  spent  in  "  going 
through  the  Academy," — a  period  of  deep  moment  to  one 
who  before  that  painted  only  wagons  for  his  livelihood. 

Storing  away  canvas,  stool,  and  easel  in  a  deserted  cabin 
close  by,  he  rejoined  me,  and,  leading  Kaweah  by  his 
lariat,  I  walked  beside  Smith  down  the  trail  toward 
Copples's. 

He  talked  freely,  and  as  if  composing  his  own  biography, 
beginning : 

"  California-born  and  mountain-raised,  his  nature  soon 
drove  him  into  a  painter's  career."  Then  he  reverted  fondly 
to  New  York  and  his  experience  there. 

"  Oh,  no !  "  he  mused  in  pleasant  irony,  "  he  never  spread 
his  napkin  over  his  legs  and  partook  French  victuals  up  to 
old  Delmonico's.  'Twasn't  H.  G.  which  took  her  to  the 
theater." 

In  a  sort  of  stage-aside  to  me,  he  added,  "  She  was  a 
model!  Stood  for  them  sculptors,  you  know;  perfectly 
virtuous,  and  built  from  the  ground  up."  Then,  as  if  words 
failed  him,  made  an  expressive  gesture  with  both  hands 
over  his  shirt-bosom  to  indicate  the  topography  of  her 
figure,  and,  sliding  them  down  sharply  against  his  waist 
band,  he  added,  "  Anatomical  torso  !  '' 

Mr.  Smith  found  relief  in  meeting  one  so  near  himself, 
as  he  conceived  me  to  be,  in  habit  and  experience.  The 
long-pent-up  emotions  and  ambitions  of  his  life  found  ready 
utterance,  and  a  willing  listener. 

I  learned  that  his  aim  was  to  become  a  characteristically 
California  painter,  with  special  designs  for  making  himself 


CUT-OFF  COPPLES'S  355 

famous  as  the  delineator  of  mule-trains  and  ox-wagons ;  to 
be,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  the  Pacific  Slope  Bonheur." 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  is  old  Eastman  Johnson ;  he's  made 
the  riffle  on  barns,  and  that  everlasting  girl  with  the  ears 
of  corn ;  but  it  ain't  life,  it  ain't  got  the  real  git-up. 

"  If  you  want  to  see  the  thing,  just  look  at  a  Gerome;  his 
Arab  folks  and  Egyptian  dancing-girls,  they  ain't  assuming 
a  pleasant  expression  and  looking  at  spots  while  their  like 
nesses  is  took. 

"  H.  G.  will  discount  Eastman  yet." 

He  avowed  his  great  admiration  of  Church,  which,  with 
a  little  leaning  toward  Mr.  Gifford,  seemed  his  only  hearty 
approval. 

"  It's  all  Bierstadt,  and  Bierstadt,  and  Bierstadt  nowa 
days  !  What  has  he  done  but  twist  and  skew  and  distort  and 
discolor  and  belittle  and  be-pretty  this  whole  dog-gonned 
country  ?  Why,  his  mountains  are  too  high  and  too  slim ; 
they'd  blow  over  in  one  of  our  fall  winds. 

"  I've  herded  colts  two  summers  in  Yosemite,  and  honest 
now,  when  I  stood  right  up  in  front  of  his  picture,  I  didn't 
know  it. 

"  He  hasn't  what  old  Ruskin  calls  for." 

By  this  time  the  station  buildings  were  in  sight,  and  far 
down  the  canon,  winding  in  even  grade  round  spur  after 
spur,  outlined  by  a  low,  clinging  cloud  of  red  dust,  we 
could  see  the  great  Sierra  mule-train, — that  industrial  gulf- 
stream  flowing  from  California  plains  over  into  arid  Ne 
vada,  carrying  thither  materials  for  life  and  luxury.  In 
a  vast,  perpetual  caravan  of  heavy  .wagons,  drawn  by 
teams  of  from  eight  to  fourteen  mules,  all  the  supplies 
of  many  cities  and  villages  were  hauled  across  the  Si 
erra  at  an  immense  cost,  and  with  such  skill  of  driv 
ing  and  generalship  of  mules  as  the  world  has  never  seen 
before. 


356  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

Our  trail  descended  toward  the  grade,  quickly  bringing 
us  to  a  high  bank  immediately  overlooking  the  trains  a 
few  rods  below  the  group  of  station  buildings. 

I  had  by.  this  time  learned  that  Copples,  the  former 
station-proprietor,  had  suffered  amputation  of  the  leg  three 
times,  receiving  from  the  road  men,  in  consequence,  the 
name  of  "  Cut-off,"  and  that,  while  his  doctors  disagreed 
as  to  whether  they  had  better  try  a  fourth,  the  kindly  hand 
of  death  had  spared  him  that  pain,  and  Mrs.  Copples  an 
added  extortion  in  the  bill. 

The  dying  "  Cut-off  "  had  made  his  wife  promise  she 
would  stay  by  and  carry  on  the  station  until  all  his  debts, 
which  were  many  and  heavy,  should  be  paid,  and  then  do 
as  she  chose. 

The  poor  woman,  a  New  Englander  of  some  refinement, 
lingered,  sadly  fulfilling  her  task,  though  longing  for 
liberty. 

When  Smith  came  to  speak  of  Sarah  Jane,  her  niece,  a 
new  light  kindled  in  my  friend's  eye. 

"  You  never  saw  Sarah  Jane  ?  "  he  inquired. 

I  shook  my  head. 

He  went  on  to  tell  me  that  he  was  living  in  hope  of  mak 
ing  her  Mrs.  H.  G.,  but  that  the  bar-keeper  also  indulged 
a  hope,  and  as  this  important  functionary  was  a  man  of 
ready  cash,  and  of  derringers  and  few  words,  it  became 
a  delicate  matter  to  avow  open  rivalry;  but  it  was  evident 
my  friend's  star  was  ascendant,  and,  learning  that  he  con 
sidered  himself  to  possess  the  "  dead-wood/'  and  to  have 
"  gaited  "  the  bar-keeper,  I  was  more  than  amused,  even 
comforted. 

It  was  pleasure  to  sit  there  leaning  against  a  vigorous 
old  oak  while  Smith  opened  his  heart  to  me,  in  easy  con 
fidence,  and,  with  quick  eye  watching  the  passing  mules, 
penciled  in  a  little  sketch-book  a  leg,  a  head,  or  such  por- 


CUT-OFF  COPPLES'S  357 

tions  of  body  and  harness  as  seemed  to  him  useful   for 
future  works. 

"  These  are  notes,"  he  said,  "  and  I've  pretty  much  made 
up  my  mind  to  paint  my  great  picture  on  a  gee-pull.  I'll 
scumble  in  a  sunset  effect,  lighting  up  the  dust,  and  striking 
across  the  backs  of  team  and  driver,  and  I'll  paint  a  come- 
up-there-d'n-you  look  on  the  old  teamster's  face,  and  the 
mules  will  be  just  a-humping  their  little  selves  and  laying 
down  to  work  like  they'd  expire.  And  the  wagon!  Don't 
you  see  what  fine  color-material  there  is  in  the  heavy  load 
and  canvas-top  with  sunlight  and  shadow  in  the  folds? 
And  that's  what's  the  matter  with  H.  G.  Smith. 

"  Orders,  sir,  orders;  that's  what  I'll  get  then,  and  I'll 
take  my  little  old  Sarah  Jane  and  light  out  for  New  York, 
and  you'll  see  Smith  on  a  studio  doorplate,  and  folks  '11 
say,  '  Fine  feeling  for  nature,  has  Smith !  ' 

I  let  this  singular  man  speak  for  himself  in  his  own  ver 
nacular,  pruning  nothing  of  its  idiom  or  slang,  as  you  shall 
choose  to  call  it.  In  this  faithful  transcript  there  are  words 
I  could  have  wished  to  expunge,  but  they  are  his,  not  mine, 
and  illustrate  his  mental  construction. 

The  breath  of  most  Californians  is  as  unconsciously 
charged  with  slang  as  an  Italian's  of  garlic,  and  the 
two,  after  all,  have  much  the  same  function;  you  touch 
the  bowl  or  your  language,  but  should  never  let  either  be 
fairly  recognized  in  salad  or  conversation.  But  Smith's 
English  was  the  well  undefiled  when  compared  with 
what  I  every  moment  heard  from  the  current  of  team 
sters  which  set  constantly  by  us  in  the  direction  of 
Copples's. 

Close  in  front  came  a  huge  wagon  piled  high  with  cases 
of  freight,  and  drawn  along  by  a  team  of  twelve  mules, 
whose  heavy  breathing  and  drenched  skins  showed  them 
hard-worked  and  well  tired  out.  The  driver  looked 


358  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

anxiously  ahead  at  a  soft  spot  in  the  road,  and  on  at  the 
station,  as  if  calculating  whether  his  team  had  courage  left 
to  haul  through. 

He  called  kindly  to  them,  cracked  his  black-snake  whip, 
and  all  together  they  strained  bravely  on. 

The  great  van  rocked,  settled  a  little  on  the  near  side, 
and  stuck  fast. 

With  a  look  of  despair  the  driver  got  off  and  laid  the 
lash  freely  among  his  team;  they  jumped  and  jerked,  fran 
tically  tangled  themselves  up,  and  at  last  all  sulked  and  be 
came  stubbornly  immovable.  Meanwhile,  a  mile  of  teams 
behind,  unable  to  pass  on  the  narrow  grade,  came  to  an 
unwilling  halt. 

About  five  wagons  back  I  noticed  a  tall  Pike,  dressed 
in  checked  shirt,  and  pantaloons  tucked  into  jack-boots. 
A  soft  felt  hat,  worn  on  the  back  of  his  head,  displayed 
long  locks  of  flaxen  hair,  which  hung  freely  about  a  florid 
pink  countenance,  noticeable  for  its  pair  of  violent  little 
blue  eyes,  and  facial  angle  rendered 'acute  by  a  sharp,  long 
nose. 

This  fellow  watched  the  stoppage  with  impatience,  and 
at  last,  when  it  was  more  than  he  could  bear,  walked  up 
by  the  other  teams  with  a  look  of  wrath  absolutely  devilish. 
One  would  have  expected  him  to  blow  up  with  rage;  yet 
withal  his  gait  and  manner  were  cool  and  soft  in  the  ex 
treme.  In  a  bland,  almost  tender  voice,  he  said  to  the 
unfortunate  driver,  "  My  friend,  perhaps  I  can  help  you  ;'* 
and  his  gentle  way  of  disentangling  and  patting  the  leaders 
as  he  headed  them  round  in  the  right  direction  would  have 
given  him  a  high  office  under  Mr.  Bergh.  He  leisurely  ex 
amined  the  embedded  wheel,  and  cast  an  eye  along  the 
road  ahead.  He  then  began  in  rather  excited  manner  to 
swear,  pouring  it  out  louder  and  more  profane,  till  he 
utterly  eclipsed  the  most  horrid  blasphemies  I  ever  heard, 


CUT-OFF  COPPLES'S  359 

piling  them  up  thicker  and  more  fiendish  till  it  seemed  as 
if  the  very  earth  must  open  and  engulf  him. 

I  noticed  one  mule  after  another  give  a  little  squat,  bring 
ing  their  breasts  hard  against  the  collars,  and  straining 
traces,  till  only  one  old  mule,  with  ears  back  and  dangling 
chain,  still  held  out.  The  Pike  walked  up  and  yelled  one 
gigantic  oath;  her  ears  sprang  forward,  she  squatted  in 
terror,  and  the  iron  links  grated  under  her  strain.  He  then 
stepped  back  and  took  the  rein,  every  trembling  mule  look- 
ing  out  of  the  corner  of  its  eye  and  listening  at  qui  vwe. 

With  a  peculiar  air  of  deliberation  and  of  childlike  sim 
plicity,  he  said  in  every-day  tones,  "  Come  up  there,  mules !  " 

One  quick  strain,  a  slight  rumble,  and  the  wagon  rolled 
on  to  Copples's. 

Smith  and  I  followed,  and  as  we  neared  the  house  he 
punched  me  familiarly  and  said,  as  a  brown  petticoat  dis 
appeared  in  the  station  door,  "  There's  Sarah  Jane !  When 
I  see  that  girl  I  feel  like  I'd  reach  out  and  gather  her  in ;" 
then  clasping  her  imaginary  form  as  if  she  was  about  to 
dance  with  him,  he  executed  a  couple  of  waltz  turns,  softly 
intimating,  "  That's  what's  the  matter  with  H.  G." 

Kaweah  being  stabled,  we  betook  ourselves  to  the  office, 
which  was  of  course  bar-room  as  well.  As  I  entered,  the 
unfortunate  teamster  was  about  paying  his  liquid  compli 
ment  to  the  florid  Pike.  Their  glasses  were  filled.  ."  My 
respects/'  said  the  little  driver.  The  whiskey  became  lost 
to  view,  and  went  eroding  its  way  through  the  dust  these 
poor  fellows  had  swallowed.  He  added,  "  Well,  Billy,  you 
can  swear." 

"  Swear  ?  "  repeated  the  Pike  in  a  tone  of  incredulous 
questioning.  "Me  swear?"  as  if  the  compliment  were 
greater  than  his  modest  desert.  "  No,  I  can't  blaspheme 
worth  a  cuss.  You'd  jest  orter  hear  Pete  Green.  He  can 
exhort  the  impenitent  mule.  I've  known  a  ten-mule-team 


360  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

to  renounce  the  flesh  and  haul  thirty-one  thousand  through 
a  foot  of  clay  mud  under  one  of  his  outpourings." 

As  a  hotel,  Copples's  is  on  the  Mongolian  plan,  which 
means  that  dining-room  and  kitchen  are  given  over  to  the 
mercies — never  very  tender — of  Chinamen ;  not  such  China 
men  as  learned  the  art  of  pig-roasting  that  they  might 
be  served  up  by  Elia,  but  the  average  John,  and  a  sadly 
low  average  that  John  is.  I  grant  him  a  certain  general 
air  of  thrift,  admitting,  too,  that  his  lack  of  sobriety  never 
makes  itself  apparent  in  loud  Celtic  brawl.  But  he  is,  when 
all  is  said,  and  in  spite  of  timid  and  fawning  obedience,  a 
very  poor  servant. 

Now  and  then  at  one  friend's  house  it  has  happened  to 
me  that  I  dined  upon  artistic  Chinese  cookery,  and  all  they 
who  come  home  from  living  in  China  smack  their  lips  over 
the  relishing  cuisine.  I  wish  they  had  sat  down  that  day 
at  Copples's.  No;  on  second  thought  I  would  spare 
them. 

John  may  go  peacefully  to  North  Adams  and  make  shoes 
for  us,  but  I  shall  not  solve  the  awful  •  domestic  problem 
by  bringing  him  into  my  kitchen ;  certainly  so  long  as  How- 
ells's  "  Mrs.  Johnson  "  lives,  nor  even  while  I  can  get  an 
Irish  lady  to  torment  me,  and  offer  the  hospitality  of  my 
home  to  her  cousins. 

After  the  warning  bell,  fifty  or  sixty  teamsters  inserted 
their  dusty  heads  in  buckets  of  water,  turned  their  once 
white  neck-handkerchiefs  inside  out,  producing  a  sudden 
effect  of  clean  linen,  and  made  use  of  the  two  mournful 
wrecks  of  combs  which  hung  on  strings  at  either  side  the 
Copples's  mirror.  Many  went  to  the  bar  and  partook  of 
a  "  dust-cutter."  There  was  then  such  clearing  of  throats, 
and  such  loud  and  prolonged  blowing  of  noses  as  may 
not  often  be  heard  upon  this  globe. 

In  the  calm  which  ensued,  conversation  sprang  up  on 


CUT-OFF  COPPLES'S  361 

"  lead  harness,"  the  "  Stockton  wagon  that  had  went  off 
the  grade,"  with  here  and  there  a  sentiment  called  out  by 
two  framed  lithographic  belles,  who  in  great  richness  of 
color  and  scantiness  of  raiment  flanked  the  bar-mirror; — a 
dazzling  reflector,  chiefly  destined  to  portray  the  bar 
keeper's  back  hair,  which  work  of  art  involved  much  af 
fectionate  labor. 

A  second  bell  and  rolling  away  of  doors  revealed  a  long 
dining-room,  with  three  parallel  tables,  cleanly  set  and 
watched  over  by  Chinamen,  whose  fresh,  white  clothes 
and  bright,  olive-buff  skin  made  a  contrast  of  color  which 
was  always  chief  among  my  yearnings  for  the  Nile. 

While  I  loitered  in  the  background  every  seat  was  taken, 
and  I  found  myself  with  a  few  dilatory  teamsters  destined 
to  await  a  second  table. 

The  dinner-room  communicated  with  a  kitchen  beyond 
by  means  of  two  square  apertures  cut  in  the  partition  wall. 
Through  these  portholes  a  glare  of  red  light  poured,  except 
when  the  square  framed  a  Chinese  cook's  head,  or  dis 
charged  hundreds  of  little  dishes. 

The  teamsters  sat  down  in  patience;  a  few  of  the  more 
elegant  sort  cleaned  their  nails  with  the  three-tine  forks, 
others  picked  their  teeth  with  them,  and  nearly  all  speared 
with  this  implement  small  specimens  from  the  dishes  before 
them,  securing  a  pickle  or  a  square  inch  of  pie  or  even 
that  luxury,  a  dried  apple ;  a  few,  on  tilted-back  chairs, 
drummed  upon  the  bottom  of  their  plates  the  latest  tune  of 
the  road. 

When  fairly  under  way  the  scene  became  active  and 
animated  beyond  belief.  Waiters,  balancing  upon  their 
arms  twenty  or  thirty  plates,  hurried  along  and  shot  them 
dexterously  over  the  teamsters'  heads  with  crash  and 
spatter. 

Beans  swimming  in  fat,  meats  slimed  with  pale,  ropy 


362  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

gravy,  and  over  everything  a  faint  Mongol  odor, — the 
flavor  of  moral  degeneracy  and  of  a  disintegrating  race. 

Sharks  and  wolves  may  no  longer  be  figured  as  types  of 
prandial  haste.  My  friends,  the  teamsters,  stuffed  and 
swallowed  with  a  rapidity  which  was  alarming  but  for 
the  dexterity  they  showed,  and  which  could  only  have 
come  of  long  practice. 

In  fifteen  minutes  the  room  was  empty,  and  those  fel 
lows  who  were  not  feeding  grain  to  their  mules  lighted 
cigars  and  lingered  round  the  bar. 

Just  then  my  artist  rushed  in,  seized  me  by  the  arm, 
and  said  in  my  ear,  "  We'll  have  our  supper  over  to  Mrs. 
Copples's.  O  no,  I  guess  not — Sarah  Jane — arms  peeled 
— cooking  up  stuff — old  woman  gone  into  the  milk-room 
with  a  skimmer."  He  then  added  that  if  I  wanted  to  see 
what  I  had  been  spared,  I  might  follow  him. 

We  went  round  an  angle  of  the  building  and  came  upon 
a  high  bank,  where,  through  wide-open  windows,  I  could 
look  into  the  Chinese  kitchen. 

By  this  time  the  second  table  of  teamsters  were  under 
way,  and  the  waiters  yelled  their  orders  through  to  the 
three  cooks. 

This  large,  unpainted  kitchen  was  lighted  up  by  kero 
sene  lamps.  Through  clouds  of  smoke  and  steam  dodged 
and  sprang  the  cooks,  dripping  with  perspiration  and  grease, 
grabbing  a  steak  in  the  hand  and  slapping  it  down  on  the 
gridiron,  slipping  and  sliding  around  on  the  damp  floor, 
dropping  a  card  of  biscuits  and  picking  them  up  again  in 
their  fists,  which  were  garnished  by  the  whole  bill  of  fare. 
The  red  papers  with  Chinese  inscriptions,  and  little  joss- 
sticks  here  and  there  pasted  upon  each  wall,  the  spry  devils 
themselves,  and  that  faint,  sickening  odor  of  China  which 
pervaded  the  room,  combined  to  produce  a  sense  of  deep, 
sober  gratitude  that  I  had  not  risked  their  fare. 


CUT-OFF  COPPLES'S  363 

"  Now/'  demanded  Smith,  "  you  see  that  there  little 
white  building  yonder  ?  " 

I  did. 

He  struck  a  contemplative  position,  leaned  against  the 
house,  extending  one  hand  after  the  manner  of  the  minstrel 
sentimentalist,  and  softly  chanted : 

" '  Tis,  O,  'tis  the  cottage  of  me  love ;' 

"  and  there's  where  they're  getting  up  as  nice  a  little  sup 
per  as  can  be  found  on  this  road  or  any  other.  Let's  go 
over!" 

So  we  strolled  across  an  open  space  where  were  two  giant 
pines  towering  somber  against  the  twilight,  a  little  mountain 
brooklet,  and  a  few  quiet  cows. 

"  Stop,"  said  Smith,  leaning  his  back  against  a  pine, 
and  encircling  my  neck  affectionately  with  an  arm ;  "  I 
told  you,  as  regards  Sarah  Jane,  how  my  feelings  stand. 
Well,  now,  you  just  bet  she's  on  the  reciprocate !  When  I 
told  old  woman  Copples  I'd  like  to  invite  you  over, — Sarah 
Jane  she  passed  me  in  the  doorway, — and  said  she,  '  Glad 
to  see  your  friends.'  " 

Then  sotto  voce,  for  we  were  very  near,  he  sang  again: 

" '  'Tis,  O,  'tis  the  cottage  of  me  love ;' 

"and  C.  K.,"  he  continued  familiarly,  "you're  a  judge  of 
wimmen,"  chucking  his  knuckles  into  my  ribs,  whereat 
I  jumped ;  when  he  added,  "  There,  I  knew  you  was.  Well, 
Sarah  Jane  is  a  derned  magnificent  female;  number  three 
boot,  just  the  height  for  me.  Venus  dc  Copples,  I  call  her, 
and  would  make  the  most  touching  artist's  wife  in  this 
planet.  If  I  design  to  paint  a  head,  or  a  foot,  or  an  arm, 
get  my  little  old  Sarah  Jane  to  peel  the  particular  charm, 
and  just  whack  her  in  on  the  canvas." 


364  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

We  passed  in  through  low  doors,  turned  from  a  small, 
dark  entry  into  the  family  sitting-room,  and  were  alone 
there  in  presence  of  a  cheery  log  fire,  which  good-naturedly 
bade  us  welcome,  crackling  freely  and  tossing  its  sparks 
out  upon  floor  of  pine  and  coyote-skin  rug.  A  few  old 
framed  prints  hung  upon  dark  walls,  their  faces  looking 
serenely  down  upon  the  scanty,  old-fashioned  furniture  and 
windows  full  of  flowering  plants.  A  low-cushioned  chair, 
not  long  since  vacated,  was  drawn  close  by  the  centre-table, 
whereon  were  a  lamp  and  a  large,  open  Bible,  with  a  pair 
of  silver-bowed  spectacles  lying  upon  its  lighted  page. 

Smith  made  a  gesture  of  silence  toward  the  door,  touched 
the  Bible,  and  whispered,  ''Here's  where  old  woman  Cop- 
pies  lives,  and  it  is  a  good  thing;  I  read  it  aloud  to  her 
evenings,  and  I  can  just  feel  the  high,  local  lights  of  it. 
It'll  fetch  H.  G.  yet !  " 

At  this  juncture  the  door  opened;  a  pale,  thin,  elderly 
woman  entered,  and  with  tired  smile  greeted  me.  While 
her  hard,  labor-stiffened,  needle-roughened  hand  was  in 
mine,  I  looked  into  her  face  and  felt  something  (it  may 
be,  it  must  be,  but  little,  yet  something)  of  the  sorrow 
of  her  life ;  that  of  a  woman  large  in  sympathy,  deep  in 
faith,  eternal  in  constancy,  thrown  away  on  a  rough,  worth 
less  fellow.  All  things  she  hoped  for  had  failed  her;  the 
tenderness  which  never  came,  the  hopes  years  ago  in  ashes, 
the  whole  world  of  her  yearnings  long  buried,  leaving  only 
the  duty  of  living  and  the  hope  of  Heaven.  As  she  sat 
down,  took  up  her  spectacles  and  knitting,  and  closed  the 
Bible,  she  began  pleasantly  to  talk  to  us  of  the  warm,  bright 
autumn  nights,  of  Smith's  work,  and  then  of  my  own  pro 
fession,  and  of  her  niece,  Sarah  Jane.  Her  genuinely  sweet 
spirit  and  natively  gentle  manner  were  very  beautiful,  and 
far  overbalanced  all  traces  of  rustic  birth  and  mountain 
life. 


CUT-OFF  COPPLES'S  365 

O,  that  unquenchable  Christian  fire,  how  pure  the  gold 
of  its  result!  It  needs  no  practiced  elegance,  no  social 
greatness,  for  its  success;  only  the  warm  human  heart, 
and  out  of  it  shall  come  a  sacred  calm  and  gentleness,  such 
as  no  power,  no  wealth,  no  culture  may  ever  hope  to  win. 

No  words  of  mine  would  outline  the  beauty  of  that  plain, 
weary  old  woman,  the  sad,  sweet  patience  of  those  gray 
eyes,  nor  the  spirit  of  overflowing  goodness  which  cheered 
and  enlivened  the  half  hour  we  spent  there. 

H.  G.  might  perhaps  be  pardoned  for  showing  an  alacrity 
when  the  door  again  opened  and  Sarah  Jane  rolled — I  might 
almost  say  trundled — in,  and  was  introduced  to  me. 

Sarah  Jane  was  an  essentially  Californian  product,  as 
much  so  as  one  of  those  vast  potatoes  or  massive  pears; 
she  had  a  suggestion  of  State-Fair  in  the  fullness  of  her 
physique,  yet  withal  was  pretty  and  modest. 

If  I  could  have  rid  myself  of  a  fear  that  her  buttons 
might  sooner  or  later  burst  off  and  go  singing  by  my  ear, 
I  think  I  might  have  felt  as  H.  G.  did,  that  she  was  a  "  mag 
nificent  female,"  with  her  smooth,  brilliant  skin  and  ropes 
of  soft  brown  hair. 

H.  G.,  in  presence  of  the  ladies,  lost  something  of  his 
original  flavor,  and  rose  into  studied  elegance,  greatly  to 
the  comfort  of  Sarah,  whose  glow  of  pride  as  his  talk  ran  on 
came  without  show  of  restraint. 

The  supper  was  delicious. 

But  Sarah  was  quiet,  quiet  to  H.  G.  and  to  me,  until 
after  tea,  when  the  old  lady  said,  "  You  young  folks  will 
have  to  excuse  me  this  evening,"  and  withdrew  to  her 
chamber. 

More  logs  were  then  piled  on  the  sitting-room  hearth, 
and  we  three  gathered  in  a  semi-circle. 

Presently  H.  G.  took  the  poker  and  twisted  it  about 
among  coals  and  ashes,  prying  up  the  oak  sticks,  as  he 


366  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

announced,  in  a  measured,  studied  way,  "  An  artist's  wife, 
that  is,"  he  explained,  "  an  Academician's  wife  orter,  well 
she'd  orter  sabe  the  beautiful,  and  take  her  regular  aes 
thetics  ;  and  then  again/'  he  continued  in  explanatory  tone, 
"  she'd  orter  to  know  how  to  keep  a  hotel,  derned  if  she 
hadn't,  for  it's  rough  like  furst  off,  'fore  a  feller  gets  his 
name  up.  But  then  when  he  does,  tho',  she's  got  a  salubrious 
old  time  of  it.  It's  touch  a  little  bell"  (he  pressed  the 
andiron-top  to  show  us  how  the  thing  was  done),  "and 
'  Brooks,  the  morning  paper  ! '  Open  your  regular  Herald : 

"  '  ART  NOTES. — Another  of  H.  G.  Smith's  tender  works, 
entitled,  "  Off  the  Grade,"  so  full  of  out-of-doors  and  subtle 
feeling  of  nature,  is  now  on  exhibition  at  Goupil's.' 

"  Look  down  a  little  further : 

"  '  ITALIAN  OPERA. — Between  the  acts  all  eyes  turned 
to  the  distingue  Mrs.  H.  G.  Smith,  who  looked,'  " — then 
turning  to  me,  and  waving  his  hand  at  Sarah  Jane,  "  I 
leave  it  to  you  if  she  don't." 

Sarah  Jane  assumed  the  pleasing  color  of  the  sugar-beet, 
without  seeming  inwardly  unhappy. 

"  It's  only  a  question  of  time  with  H.  G.,"  continued 
my  friend.  "  Art  is  long,  you  know — derned  long — and  it 
may  be  a  year  before  I  paint  my  great  picture,  but  after 
that  Smith  works  in  lead  harness." 

He  used  the  poker  freely,  and  more  and  more  his  flow 
of  hopes  turned  a  shade  of  sentiment  to  Sarah  Jane,  who 
smiled  broader  and  broader,  showing  teeth  of  healthy 
whiteness. 

At  last  I  withdrew  and  sought  my  room,  which  was 
H.  G.'s  also,  and  his  studio.  I  had  gone  with  a  candle  round 
the  walls  whereon  were  tacked  studies  and  sketches,  finding 
here  and  there  a  bit  of  real  merit  among  the  profusion  of 
trash,  when  the  door  burst  open  and  my  friend  entered, 


CUT-OFF  COPPLES'S  367 

kicked  off  his  boots  and  trousers,  and  walked  up  and  down 
at  a  sort  of  quadrille  step,  singing : 

" '  Yes,  it's  the  cottage  of  me  love ; 
You  bet,  it's  the  cottage  of  me  love,' 

"  and,  what's  more,  H.  G.  has  just  had  his  genteel  good 
night  kiss ;  and  when  and  where  is  the  good  old  bar-keep  ?  " 

I  checked  his  exuberance  as  best  I  might,  knowing  full 
well  that  the  quiet  and  elegant  dispenser  of  neat  and  mixed 
beverages  hearing  this  inquiry  would  put  in  an  appearance 
in  person  and  offer  a  few  remarks  designed  to  provoke  ill- 
feeling.  So  I  at  last  got  Smith  in  bed  and  the  lamp  out. 
All  was  quiet  for  a  few  moments,  and  when  I  had  almost 
gotten  asleep  I  heard  my  room-mate  in  low  tones  say  to 
himself, — • 

"  Married,  by  the  Rev.  Gospel,  our  talented  California 
artist,  Mr.  H.  G.  Smith,  to  Miss  Sarah  Jane  Copples.  No 
cards." 

A  pause,  and  then  with  more  gentle  utterance,  "  and 
that's  what's  the  matter  with  H.  G." 

Slowly  from  this  atmosphere  of  art  I  passed  away  into 
the  tranquil  land  of  dreams. 


[From   Mountaineering  in  the   Sierra  Nevada,  by   Clarence   King. 

Copyright,  1871,  by  James  R.  Osgood  &  Co.    Copyright, 

1902,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.] 


THE  THEATRE  FRANCAIS 
HENRY  JAMES 

M.  FRANCISQUE  SARCEY,  the  dramatic  critic  of  the  Paris 
"  Temps/'  and  the  gentleman  who,  of  the  whole  journalistic 
fraternity,  holds  the  fortune  of  a  play  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand,  has  been  publishing  during  the  last  year  a  series  of 
biographical  notices  of  the  chief  actors  and  actresses  of  the 
first  theater  in  the  world.  Comcdiens  et  Comediennes: 
la  Comcdie  Frangaise — such  is  the  title  of  this  publica 
tion,  which  appears  in  monthly  numbers  of  the  "  Librairie 
des  Bibliophiles/'  and  is  ornamented  on  each  occasion  with 
a  very  prettily  etched  portrait,  by  M.  Gaucherel,  of  the  artist 
to  whom  the  number  is  devoted.  By  lovers  of  the  stage  in 
general  and  of  the  Theatre  Frangais  in  particular  the  series 
will  be  found  most  interesting;  and  I  welcome  the  pretext 
for  saying  a  few  words  about  an  institution  which — if  such 
language  be  not  hyperbolical — I  passionately  admire.  I 
must  add  that  the  portrait  is  incomplete,  though  for  the 
present  occasion  it  is  more  than  sufficient.  The  list  of  M. 
Sarcey's  biographies  is  not  yet  filled  up ;  three  or  four,  those 
of  Madame  Favart  and  of  MM.  Febvre  and  Delaunay,  are 
still  wanting.  Nine  numbers,  however,  have  appeared — the 
first  being  entitled  La  Maison  de  Moliere,  and  devoted 
to  a  general  account  of  the  great  theater ;  and  the  others 
treating  of  its  principal  societaires  and  pensionnaires  in  the 
following  order : 

368 


THE  THEATRE  FRAN^AIS  369 

Regnier, 

Got, 

Sophie  Croizette, 

Sarah  Bernhardt, 

Coquelin, 

Madeleine  Brohan, 

Bressant, 

Madame  Plessy. 

(This  order,  by  the  way,  is  purely  accidental;  it  is  not 
that  of  age  or  of  merit.)  It  is  always  entertaining  to 
encounter  M.  Francisque  Sarcey,  and  the  reader  who,  dur 
ing  a  Paris  winter,  has  been  in  the  habit,  of  a  Sunday 
evening,  of  unfolding  his  "  Temps  "  immediately  after  un 
folding  his  napkin,  and  glancing  down  first  of  all  to  see  what 
this  sturdy  feuilletonist*  has  found  to  his  hand — such  a 
reader  will  find  him  in  great  force  in  the  pages  before  us. 
It  is  true  that,  though  I  myself  confess  to  being  such  a 
reader,  there  are  moments  when  I  grow  rather  weary  of 
M.  Sarcey,  who  has  in  an  eminent  degree  both  the  virtues 
and  the  defects  which  attach  to  the  great  French  charac 
teristic — the  habit  of  taking  terribly  an  scrieu.r  anything 
that  you  may  set  about  doing.  Of  this  habit  of  abounding 
in  one's  own  sense,  of  expatiating,  elaborating,  reiterating, 
refining,  as  if  for  the  hour  the  fate  of  mankind  were  bound 
up  with  one's  particular  topic,  M.  Sarcey  is  a  capital  and 
at  times  an  almost  comical  representative.  He  talks  about 
the  theater  once  a  week  as  if — honestly,  between  himself 
and  his  reader — the  theater  were  the  only  thing  in  this 
frivolous  world  that  is  worth  seriously  talking  about.  He 
has  a  religious  respect  for  his  theme  and  he  holds  that  if 
a  thing  is  to  be  done  at  all  it  must  be  done  in  detail  as  well 
as  in  the  gross. 

It  is  to  this  serious  way  of  taking  the  matter,  to  his  thor- 


370  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

oughly  businesslike  and  professional  attitude,  to  his  un 
wearying  attention  to  detail,  that  the  critic  of  the  "  Temps  '' 
owes  his  enviable  influence  and  the  weight  of  his  words. 
Add  to  this  that  he  is  sternly  incorruptible.  He  has  his 
admirations,  but  they  are  honest  and  discriminating;  and 
whom  he  loveth  he  very  often  chasteneth.  He  is  not 
ashamed  to  commend  Mile.  X.,  who  has  only  had  a  curtsy 
to  make,  if  her  curtsy  has  been  the  ideal  curtsy  of  the  situa 
tion;  and  he  is  not  afraid  to  overhaul  M.  A.,  who  has 
delivered  the  tirade  of  the  play,  if  M.  A.,  has  failed  to  hit 
the  mark.  Of  course  his  judgment  is  good ;  when  I  have  had 
occasion  to  measure  it  I  have  usually  found  it  excellent.  He 
has  the  scenic  sense — the  theatrical  eye.  He  knows  at  a 
glance  what  will  do,  and  what  will  not  do.  He  is  shrewd 
and  sagacious  and  almost  tiresomely  in  earnest,  and  this  is 
his  principal  brilliancy.  He  is  homely,  familiar  and  col 
loquial  ;  he  leans  his  elbows  on  his  desk  and  does  up  his 
weekly  budget  into  a  parcel  the  reverse  of  coquettish.  You 
can  fancy  him  a  grocer  retailing  tapioca  and  hominy — full 
weight  for  the  price ;  his  style  seems  a  sort  of  integument  of 
brown  paper.  But  the  fact  remains  that  if  M.  Sarcey  praises 
a  play  the  play  has  a  run ;  and  that  if  M.  Sarcey  says  it  will 
not  do  it  does  not  do  at  all.  If  M.  Sarcey  devotes  an 
encouraging  line  and  a  half  to  a  young  actress,  mademoi 
selle  is  immediately  lancce ;  she  has  a  career.  If  he  bestows 
a  quiet  "  bravo  "  on  an  obscure  comedian,  the  gentleman 
may  forthwith  renew  his  engagement.  When  you  make 
and  unmake  fortunes  at  this  rate,  what  matters  it  whether 
you  have  a  little  elegance  the  more  or  the  less?  Elegance 
is  for  M.  Paul  de  St.  Victor,  who  does  the  theaters  in  the 
"  Moniteur,"  and  who,  though  he  writes  a  style  only  a  trifle 
less  pictorial  than  that  of  Theophile  Gautier  himself,  has 
never,  to  the  best  of  my  belief,  brought  clouds  or  sunshine 
to  any  playhouse.  I  may  add,  to  finish  with  M.  Sarcey, 


THE  THEATRE  FRANCAIS  371 

that  he  contributes  a  daily  political  article — generally  de 
voted  to  watching  and  showing  up  the  "  game "  of  the 
clerical  party— to  Edmond  About's  journal,  the  "  XIX^me 
Siecle  " ;  that  he  gives  a  weekly  conference  on  current  lit 
erature  ;  that  he  "  confers  "  also  on  those  excellent  Sunday 
morning  performances  now  so  common  in  the  French  thea 
ters,  during  which  examples  of  the  classic  reportory  are 
presented,  accompanied  by  a  light  lecture  upon  the  history 
and  character  of  the  play.  As  the  commentator  on  these 
occasions  M.  Sarcey  is  in  great  demand,  and  he  officiates 
sometimes  in  small  provincial  towns.  Lastly,  frequent  play 
goers  in  Paris  observe  that  the  very  slenderest  novelty  is 
sufficient  to  insure  at  a  theater  the  (very  considerable) 
physical  presence  of  the  conscientious  critic  of  the  "  Temps/' 
If  he  were  remarkable  for  nothing  else  he  would  be  remark 
able  for  the  fortitude  with  which  he  exposes  himself  to  the 
pestiferous  climate  of  the  Parisian  temples  of  the  drama. 

For  these  agreeable  "  notices  "  M.  Sarcey  appears  to  have 
mended  his  pen  and  to  have  given  a  fillip  to  his  fancy.  They 
are  gracefully  and  often  lightly  turned;  occasionally,  even, 
the  author  grazes  the  epigrammatic.  They  deal,  as  is  proper, 
with  the  artistic  and  not  with  the  private  physiognomy  of 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  whom  they  commemorate ;  and 
though  they  occasionally  allude  to  what  the  French  call 
"  intimate "  matters,  they  contain  no  satisfaction  for  the 
lovers  of  scandal.  The  Theatre  Frangais,  in  the  face  it 
presents  to  the  world,  is  an  austere  and  venerable  establish 
ment,  and  a  frivolous  tone  about  its  affairs  would  be  almost 
as  much  out  of  keeping  as  if  applied  to  the  Academic  her 
self.  M.  Sarcey  touches  upon  the  organization  of  the 
theater,  and  gives  some  account  of  the  different  pfiases 
through  which  it  has  passed  during  these  latter  years.  Its 
chief  functionary  is  a  general  administrator,  or  director, 
appointed  by  the  State,  which  enjoys  this  right  in  virtue 


372  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

of  the  considerable  subsidy  which  it  pays  to  the  house; 
a  subsidy  amounting,  if  I  am  not  mistaken  (M.  Sarcey  does 
not  mention  the  sum),  to  250,000  francs.  The  director, 
however,  is  not  an  absolute  but  a  constitutional  ruler;  for 
he  shares  his  powers  with  the  society  itself,  which  has 
always  had  a  large  deliberative  voice. 

Whence,  it  may  be  asked,  does  the  society  derive  its  light 
and  its  inspiration?  From  the  past,  from  precedent,  from 
tradition — Kfrom  the  great  unwritten  body  of  laws  which 
no  one  has  in  his  keeping  but  many  have  in  their  memory, 
and  all  in  their  respect.  The  principles  on  which  the 
Theatre  Francois  rests  are  a  good  deal  like  the  Common 
Law  of  England — a  vaguely  and  inconveniently  registered 
mass  of  regulations  which  time  and  occasion  have  welded 
together  and  from  which  the  recurring  occasion  can  usually 
manage  to  extract  the  rightful  precedent.  Napoleon  I., 
who  had  a  ringer  in  every  pie  in  his  dominion,  found  time 
during  his  brief  and  disastrous  occupation  of  Moscow  to 
send  down  a  decree  remodeling  and  regulating  the  consti 
tution  of  the  theater.  This  document  has  long  been  a  dead 
letter,  and  the  society  abides  by  its  older  traditions.  The 
traditions  of  the  Comedie  Franchise — that  is  the  sovereign 
word,  and  that  is  the  charm  of  the  place — the  charm  that 
one  never  ceases  to  feel,  however  often  one  may  sit  be 
neath  the  classic,  dusky  dome.  One  feels  this  charm  with 
peculiar  intensity  as  a  newly  arrived  foreigner.  The 
Theatre  Frangais  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  able  to 
allow  its  traditions  to  accumulate.  They  have  been  pre 
served,  transmitted,  respected,  cherished,  until  at  last  they 
form  the  very  atmosphere,  the  vital  air,  of  the  establish 
ment.  A  stranger  feels  their  superior  influence  the  first 
time  he  sees  the  great  curtain  go  up;  he  feels  that  he  is  in 
a  theater  that  is  not  as  other  theaters  are.  It  is  not  only 
better,  it  is  different.  It  has  a  peculiar  perfection — some- 


THE  THEATRE  FRAN^AIS  373 

thing  consecrated,  historical,  academic.  This  impression  is 
delicious,  and  he  watches  the  performance  in  a  sort  of  tran 
quil  ecstasy. 

Never  has  he  seen  anything  so  smooth  and  harmonious, 
so  artistic  and  complete.  He  has  heard  all  his  life  of  atten 
tion  to  detail,  and  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  sees  some 
thing  that  deserves  the  name.  He  sees  dramatic  effort 
refined  to  a  point  with  which  the  English  stage  is  unac 
quainted.  He  sees  that  there  are  no  limits  to  possible 
"  finish/'  and  that  so  trivial  an  act  as  taking  a  letter  from 
a  servant  or  placing  one's  hat  on  a  chair  may  be  made  a 
suggestive  and  interesting  incident.  He  sees  these  things 
and  a  great  many  more  besides,  but  at  first  he  does  not 
analyze  them ;  he  gives  himself  up  to  sympathetic  contem 
plation.  He  is  in  an  ideal  and  exemplary  world — a  world 
that  has  managed  to  attain  all  the  felicities  that  the  world 
we  live  in  misses.  The  people  do  the  things  that  we  should 
like  to  do ;  they  are  gifted  as  we  should  like  to  be ;  they  have 
mastered  the  accomplishments  that  we  have  had  to  give  up. 
The  women  are  not  all  beautiful — decidedly  not,  indeed — 
but  they  are  graceful,  agreeable,  sympathetic,  ladylike ;  they 
have  the  best  manners  possible  and  they  are  delightfully 
well  dressed.  They  have  charming  musical  voices  and  they 
speak  with  irreproachable  purity  and  sweetness;  they  walk 
with  the  most  elegant  grace  and  when  they  sit  it  is  a  pleas 
ure  to  see  their  attitudes.  They  go  out  and  come  in,  they 
pass  across  the  stage,  they  talk,  and  laugh,  and  cry,  they 
deliver  long  tirades  or  remain  statuesquely  mute;  they  are 
tender  or  tragic,  they  are  comic  or  conventional ;  and  through 
it  all  you  never  observe  an  awkwardness,  a  roughness,  an 
accident,  a  crude  spot,  a  false  note. 

As  for  the  men,  they  are  not  handsome  either;  it  must 
be  confessed,  indeed,  that  at  the  present  hour  manly  beauty 
is  but  scantily  represented  at  the  Theatre  Frangais.  Bres- 


374  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

sant,  I  believe,  used  to  be  thought  handsome ;  but  Bressant 
has  retired,  and  among  the  gentlemen  of  the  troupe  I  can 
think  of  no  one  but  M.  Mounet-Sully  who  may  be  posi 
tively  commended  for  his  fine  person.  But  M.  Mounet- 
Sully  is,  from  the  scenic  point  of  view,  an  Adonis  of  the 
first  magnitude.  To  be  handsome,  however,  is  for  an  actor 
one  of  the  last  necessities;  and  these  gentlemen  are  mostly 
handsome  enough.  They  look  perfectly  what  they  are  in 
tended  to  look,  and  in  cases  where  it  is  proposed  that  they 
shall  seem  handsome,  they  usually  succeed.  They  are  as 
well  mannered  and  as  well  dressed  as  their  fairer  comrades 
and  their  voices  are  no  less  agreeable  and  effective.  They 
represent  gentlemen  and  they  produce  the  illusion.  In  this 
endeavour  they  deserve  even  greater  credit  than  the  ac 
tresses,  for  in  modern  comedy,  of  which  the  repertory  of  the 
Theatre  Fran9ais  is  largely  composed,  they  have  nothing 
in  the  way  of  costume  to  help  to  carry  it  off.  Half-a-dozen 
ugly  men,  in  the  periodic  co.at  and  trousers  and  stove-pipe 
hat,  with  blue  chins  and  false  mustaches,  strutting  before 
the  footlights,  and  pretending  to  be  interesting,  romantic, 
pathetic,  heroic,  certainly  play  a  perilous  game.  At  every 
turn  they  suggest  prosaic  things  and  the  usual  liability  to 
awkwardness  is  meantime  increased  a  thousandfold.  But 
the  comedians  of  the  Theatre  Frangais  are  never  awkward, 
and  when  it  is  necessary  they  solve  triumphantly  the  prob 
lem  of  being  at  once  realistic  to  the  eye  and  romantic  to 
the  imagination. 

I  am  speaking  always  of  one's  first  impression  of  them. 
There  are  spots  on  the  sun,  and  you  discover  after  a  while 
that  there  are  little  irregularities  at  the  Theatre  Frangais. 
But  the  acting  is  so  incomparably  better  than  any  that 
you  have  seen  that  criticism  for  a  long  time  is  content 
to  lie  dormant.  I  shall  never  forget  how  at  first  I  was 
under  the  charm.  I  liked  the  very  incommodities  of  the 


THE  THEATRE  FRAN^AIS  375 

place;  I  am  not  sure  that  I  did  not  find  a  certain  mystic 
salubrity  in  the  bad  ventilation.  The  Theatre  Francois, 
it  is  known,  gives  you  a  good  deal  for  your  money.  The 
performance,  which  rarely  ends  before  midnight,  and  some 
times  transgresses  it,  frequently  begins  by  seven  o'clock. 
The  first  hour  or  two  is  occupied  by  secondary  performers ; 
but  not  for  the  world  at  this  time  would  I  have  missed  the 
first  rising  of  the  curtain.  No  dinner  could  be  too  hastily 
swallowed  to  enable  me  to  see,  for  instance,  Madame 
Nathalie  in  Octave  Feuillet's  charming  little  comedy  of 
"  Le  Village/'  Madame  Nathalie  was  a  plain,  stout  old 
woman,  who  did  the  mothers  and  aunts  and  elderly  wives ; 
I  use  the  past  tense  because  she  retired  from  the  stage 
a  year  ago,  leaving  a  most  conspicuous  vacancy.  She  was 
an  admirable  actress  and  a  perfect  mistress  of  laughter  and 
tears.  In  "  Le  Village "  she  played  an  old  provincial 
bourgeoise  whose  husband  takes  it  into  his  head,  one  winter 
night,  to  start  on  the  tour  of  Europe  with  a  roving  bachelor 
friend,  who  has  dropped  down  on  him  at  supper-time,  after 
the  lapse  of  years,  and  has  gossiped  him  into  momentary 
discontent  with  his  fireside  existence.  My  pleasure  was  in 
Madame  Nathalie's  figure  when  she  came  in  dressed  to  go 
out  to  vespers  across  the  place.  The  two  foolish  old  cronies 
are  over  their  wine,  talking  of  the  beauty  of  the  women  on 
the  Ionian  coast ;  you  hear  the  church-bell  in  the  distance. 
It  was  the  quiet  felicity  of  the  old  lady's  dress  that  used 
to  charm  me;  the  Comedie  Franchise  was  in  every  fold 
of  it.  She  wore  a  large  black  silk  mantilla,  of  a  peculiar 
cut,  which  looked  as  if  she  had  just  taken  it  tenderly  out 
of  some  old  wardrobe  where  it  lay  folded  in  lavender,  and 
a  large  dark  bonnet,  adorned  with  handsome  black  silk 
loops  and  bows.  Her  big  pale  face  had  a  softly  frightened 
look,  and  in  her  hand  she  carried  her  neatly  kept  breviary. 
The  extreme  suggestiveness,  and  yet  the  taste  and  temper- 


376  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

ance  of  this  costume,  seemed  to  me  inimitable ;  the  bonnet 
alone,  with  its  handsome,  decent,  virtuous  bows,  was  worth 
coming  to  see.  It  expressed  all  the  rest,  and  you  saw  the 
excellent,  pious  woman  go  pick  her  steps  churchward  among 
the  puddles,  while  Jeannette,  the  cook,  in  a  high  white  cap, 
marched  before  her  in  sabots  with  a  lantern. 

Such  matters  are  trifles,  but  they  are  representative  trifles, 
and  they  are  not  the  only  ones  that  I  remember.  It  used 
to  please  me,  when  I  had  squeezed  into  my  stall — the  stalls 
at  the  Frangais  are  extremely  uncomfortable — to  remem 
ber  of  how  great  a  history  the  large,  dim  salle  around  me 
could  boast;  how  many  great  things  had  happened  there; 
how  the  air  was  thick  with  associations.  Even  if  I  had 
never  seen  Rachel,  it  was  something  of  a  consolation  to  think 
that  those  very  footlights  had  illumined  her  finest  moments 
and  that  the  echoes  of  her  mighty  voice  were  sleeping 
in  that  dingy  dome.  From  this  to  musing  upon  the  "  tradi 
tions  "  of  the  place,  of  which  I  spoke  just  now,  was  of  course 
but  a  step.  How  were  they  kept?  by  whom,  and  where? 
Who  trims  the  undying  lamp  and  guards  the  accumulated 
treasure?  I  never  found  out — by  sitting  in  the  stalls;  and 
very  soon  I  ceased  to  care  to  know.  One  may  be  very  fond 
of  the  stage  and  yet  care  little  for  the  green-room;  just  as 
one  may  be  very  fond  of  pictures  and  books  and  yet  be  no 
frequenter  of  studios  and  authors'  dens.  They  might  pass 
on  the  torch  as  they  would  behind  the  scenes ;  so  long  as 
during  my  time  they  did  not  let  it  drop  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  be  satisfied.  And  that  one  could  depend  upon  their  not 
letting  it  drop  became  a  part  of  the  customary  comfort  of 
Parisian  life.  It  became  certain  that  the  "  traditions  ''  were 
not  mere  catchwords,  but  a  most  beneficent  reality. 

Going  to  the  other  Parisian  theaters  helps  you  to  believe 
in  them.  Unless  you  are  a  voracious  theater-goer  you  give 
the  others  up ;  you  find  they  do  not  "  pay  " ;  the  Frangais 


THE  THEATRE  FRANCAIS  377 

does  for  you  all  that  they  do  and  so  much  more  besides. 
There  are  two  possible  exceptions — the  Gymnase  and  the 
Palais  Royal.  The  Gymnase,  since  the  death  of  Mademoi 
selle  Desclee,  has  been  under  a  heavy  cloud;  but  occasion 
ally,  when  a  month's  sunshine  rests  upon  it,  there  is  a 
savor  of  excellence  in  the  performance.  But  you  feel  that 
you  are  still  within  the  realm  of  accident ;  the  delightful 
security  of  the  Rue  de  Richelieu  is  wanting.  The  young 
lover  is  liable  to  be  common  and  the  beautifully  dressed 
heroine  to  have  an  unpleasant  voice.  The  Palais  Royal 
has  always  been  in  its  way  very  perfect ;  but  its  way  admits 
of  great  imperfection.  The  actresses  are  classically  bad, 
though  usually  pretty,  and  the  actors  are  much  addicted  to 
taking  liberties.  In  broad  comedy,  nevertheless,  two  or  three 
of  the  latter  are  not  to  be  surpassed,  and  (counting  out  the 
women)  there  is  usually  something  masterly  in  a  Palais 
Royal  performance.  In  its  own  line  it  has  what  is  called 
style,  and  it  therefore  walks,  at  a  distance,  in  the  footsteps 
of  the  Frangais.  The  Odeon  has  never  seemed  to  me  in 
any  degree  a  rival  of  the  Theatre  Frangais,  though  it  is  a 
smaller  copy  of  that  establishment.  It  receives  a  subsidy 
from  the  State,  and  is  obliged  by  its  contract  to  play  the 
classic  repertory  one  night  in  the  week.  It  is  on  these 
nights,  listening  to  Moliere  or  Marivaux,  that  you  may  best 
measure  the  superiority  of  the  greater  theater.  I  have  seen 
actors  at  the  Odeon,  in  the  classic  repertory,  imperfect  in 
their  texts ;  a  monstrously  insupposable  case  at  the  Comedie 
Francaise.  The  function  of  the  Odeon  is  to  operate  as  a 
pepiniere  or  nursery  for  its  elder — to  try  young  talents, 
shape  them,  make  them  flexible  and  then  hand  them  over 
to  the  upper  house.  The  more  especial  nursery  of  the 
Frangais,  however,  is  the  Conservatoire  Dramatique,  an  in 
stitution  dependent  upon  the  State,  through  the  Ministry  of 
the  Fine  Arts,  whose  budget  is  charged  with  the  remunera- 


378  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

tion  of  its  professors.  Pupils  graduating  from  the  Con 
servatoire  with  a  prize  have  ipso  facto  the  right  to  dcbuter 
at  the  Theatre  Franqais,  which  retains  them  or  lets  them 
go,  according  to  its  discretion.  Most  of  the  first  subjects 
of  the  Frangais  have  done  their  two  years'  work  at  the 
Conservatoire,  and  M.  Sarcey  holds  that  an  actor  who  has 
not  had  that  fundamental  training  which  is  only  to  be 
acquired  there  never  obtains  a  complete  mastery  of  his 
resources.  Nevertheless  some  of  the  best  actors  of  the 
day  have  owed  nothing  to  the  Conservatoire — Bressant,  for 
instance,  and  Aimee  Desclee,  the  latter  of  whom,  indeed, 
never  arrived  at  the  Frangais.  (Moliere  and  Balzac  were 
not  of  the  Academy,  and  so  Mile.  Desclee,  the  first  actress 
after  Rachel,  died  without  acquiring  the  privilege  which 
M.  Sarcey  says  is  the  day-dream  of  all  young  theatrical 
women — that  of  printing  on  their  visiting-cards,  after  their 
name,  dc  la  Comcdle  Frangaise.) 

The  Theatre  Frangais  has,  moreover,  the  right  to  do  as 
Moliere  did — to  claim  its  property  wherever  it  finds  it.  It 
may  stretch  out  its  long  arm  and  break  the  engagement  of 
a  promising  actor  at  any  of  the  other  theaters;  of  course 
after  a  certain  amount  of  notice  given.  So,  last  winter, 
it  notified  to  the  Gymnase  its  design  of  appropriating 
Worms,  the  admirable  jeune  premier,  who,  returning  from 
a  long  sojourn  in  Russia  and  taking  the  town  by  surprise, 
had  begun  to  retrieve  the  shrunken  fortunes  of  that  estab 
lishment. 

On  -the  whole,  it  may  be  said  that  the  great  talents  find 
their  way,  sooner  or  later,  to  the  Theatre  Frangais.  This 
is  of  course  not  a  rule  that  works  unvaryingly,  for  there 
are  a  great  many  influences  to  interfere  with  it.  Interest 
as  well  as  merit — especially  in  the  case  of  the  actresses — 
weighs  in  the  scale;  and  the  ire  that  may  exist  in  celestial 
minds  has  been  known  to  manifest  itself  in  the  councils  of 


THE  THEATRE  FRAN^AIS  379 

the  Comedie.  Moreover,  a  brilliant  actress  may  prefer  to 
reign  supreme  at  one  of  the  smaller  theaters;  at  the  Fran- 
c,ais,  inevitably,  she  shares  her  dominion.  The  honor  is  less, 
but  the  comfort  is  greater. 

Nevertheless,  at  the  Frangais,  in  a  general  way,  there  is 
in  each  case  a  tolerably  obvious  artistic  reason  for  member 
ship  ;  and  if  you  see  a  clever  actor  remain  outside  for  years, 
you  may  be  pretty  sure  that,  though  private  reasons  count, 
there  are  artistic  reasons  as  well.  The  first  half  dozen 
times  I  saw  Mademoiselle  Fargueil,  who  for  years  ruled 
the  roost,  as  the  vulgar  saying  is,  at  the  Vaudeville,  I  won 
dered  that  so  consummate  and  accomplished  an  actress 
should  not  have  a  place  on  the  first  French  stage.  But  I 
presently  grew  wiser,  and  perceived  that,  clever  as 
Mademoiselle  Fargueil  is,  she  is  not  for  the  Rue  de 
Richelieu,  but  for  the  Boulevards ;  her  peculiar,  intensely 
Parisian  intonation  would  sound  out  of  place  in  the  Maison 
de  Moliere.  (Of  course  if  Mademoiselle  Fargueil  has  ever 
received  overtures  from  the  Frangais,  my  sagacity  is  at 
fault — I  am  looking  through  a  millstone.  But  I  suspect 
she  has  not.)  Frederic  Lemaitre,  who  died  last  winter, 
and  who  was  a  very  great  actor,  had  been  tried  at  the 
Frangais  and  found  wanting — for  those  particular  condi 
tions.  But  it  may  probably  be  said  that  if  Frederic  was 
wanting,  the  theater  was  too,  in  this  case.  Frederic's  great 
force  was  his  extravagance,  his  fantasticality ;  and  the  stage 
of  the  Rue  de  Richelieu  was  a  trifle  too  academic.  I  have 
even  wondered  whether  Desclee,  if  she  had  lived,  would 
have  trod  that  stage  by  right,  and  whether  it  would  have 
seemed  her  proper  element.  The  negative  is  not  impossible. 
It  is  very  possible  that  in  that  classic  atmosphere  her  great 
charm — her  intensely  modern  quality,  her  super-subtle 
realism — would  have  appeared  an  anomaly.  I  can  imagine 
even  that  her  strange,  touching,  nervous  voice  would  not 


380  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

have  seemed  the  voice  of  the  house.  At  the  Frangais  you 
must  know  how  to  acquit  yourself  of  a  tirade;  that  has 
always  been  the  touchstone  of  capacity.  It  would  probably 
have  proved  Desclee's  stumbling-block,  though  she  could 
utter  speeches  of  six  words  as  no  one  else  surely  has  ever 
done.  It  is  true  that  Mademoiselle  Croizette,  and  in  a  cer 
tain  sense  Mademoiselle  Sarah  Bernhardt,  are  rather  weak 
at  their  tirades;  but  then  old  theater-goers  will  tell  you  that 
these  young  ladies,  in  spite  of  a  hundred  attractions,  have 
no  business  at  the  Frangais. 

In  the  course  of  time  the  susceptible  foreigner  passes 
from  that  superstitious  state  of  attention  which  I  just  now 
sketched  to  that  greater  enlightenment  which  enables  him 
to  understand  such  a  judgment  as  this  of  the  old  theater 
goers.  It  is  borne  in  upon  him  that,  as  the  good  Homer 
sometimes  nods,  the  Theatre  Frangais  sometimes  lapses 
from  its  high  standard.  He  makes  various  reflections.  He 
thinks  that  Mademoiselle  Favart  rants.  He  thinks  M. 
Mounet-Sully,  in  spite  of  his  delicious  voice,  insupportable. 
He  thinks  that  M.  Parodi's  five-act  tragedy,  "  Rome 
Vaincue,"  presented  in  the  early  part  of  the  present  winter, 
was  better  done  certainly  than  it  would  have  been  done 
upon  any  English  stage,  but  by  no  means  so  much  better 
done  as  might  have  been  expected.  (Here,  if  I  had  space, 
I  would  open  a  long  parenthesis,  in  which  I  should  aspire 
to  demonstrate  that  the  incontestable  superiority  of  average 
French  acting  to  English  is  by  no  means  so  strongly  marked 
in  tragedy  as  in  comedy — is  indeed  sometimes  not  strongly 
marked  at  all.  The  reason  of  this  is  in  a  great  measure, 
I  think,  that  we  have  had  Shakespeare  to  exercise  ourselves 
upon,  and  that  an  inferior  dramatic  instinct  exercised  upon 
Shakespeare  may  become  more  flexible  than  a  superior 
one  exercised  upon  Corneille  and  Racine.  When  it  comes 
to  ranting — ranting  even  in  a  modified  and  comparatively 


THE  THEATRE  FRANCAIS  381 

reasonable  sense — we  do,  I  suspect,  quite  as  well  as  the 
French,  if  not  rather  better.)  Mr.  G.  H.  Lewes,  in  his 
entertaining  little  book  upon  Actors  and  the  Art  of  Acting, 
mentions  -M.  Talbot,  of  the  Frangais,  as  a  surprisingly  in 
competent  performer.  My  memory  assents  to  his  judgment 
at  the  same  time  that  it  proposes  an  amendment.  This 
actor's  special  line  is  the  buffeted,  bemuddled,  besotted  old 
fathers,  uncles  and  guardians  of  classic  comedy,  and  he 
plays  them  with  his  face  much  more  than  with  his  tongue. 
Nature  has  endowed  him  with  a  visage  so  admirably 
adapted,  once  for  all,  to  his  role,  that  he  has  only  to  sit 
in  a  chair,  with  his  hands  folded  on  his  stomach,  to  look 
like  a  monument  of  bewildered  senility.  After  that  it  does 
not  matter  what  he  says  or  how  he  says  it. 

The  Comedie  Franchise  sometimes  does  weaker  things 
than  in  keeping  M.  Talbot.  Last  autumn,*  for  instance,  it 
was  really  depressing  to  see  Mademoiselle  Dudley  brought 
all  the  way  from  Brussels  (and  with  not  a  little  flourish 
either)  to  "  create  "  the  guilty  vestal  in  "  Rome  Vaincue." 
As  far  as  the  interests  of  art  are  concerned,  Mademoiselle 
Dudley  had  much  better  have  remained  in  the  Flemish 
capital,  of  whose  language  she  is  apparently  a  perfect  mis 
tress.  It  is  hard,  too,  to  forgive  M.  Perrin  (M.  Perrin 
is  the  present  director  of  the  Theatre  Frangais)  for  bring 
ing  out  "  L'Ami  Fritz  "  of  M.  Erckmann-Chatrian.  The 
two  gentlemen  who  write  under  this  name  have  a  double 
claim  to  kindness.  In  the  first  place,  they  have  produced 
some  delightful  little  novels ;  everyone  knows  and  admires 
Le  Consent  de  1813;  everyone  admires,  indeed,  the  charm 
ing  tale  on  which  the  play  in  question  is  founded.  In  the 
second  place,  they  were,  before  the  production  of  their 
piece,  the  objects  of  a  scurrilous  attack  by  the  "  Figaro  " 
newspaper,  which  held  the  authors  up  to  reprobation  for 

*  1876. 


382  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

having  "  insulted  the  army/'  and  did  its  best  to  lay  the 
train  for  a  hostile  manifestation  on  the  first  night.  (It  may 
be  added  that  the  good  sense  of  the  public  outbalanced  the 
impudence  of  the  newspaper,  and  the  play  was  simply  ad 
vertised  into  success.)  But  neither  the  novels  nor  the 
persecutions  of  M.  Erckmann-Chatrian  avail  to  render 
"  L'Ami  Fritz,"  in  its  would-be  dramatic  form,  worthy  of 
the  first  French  stage.  It  is  played  as  well  as  possible,  and 
upholstered  even  better;  but  it  is,  according  to  the  vulgar 
phrase,  too  "  thin  "  for  the  locality.  Upholstery  has  never 
played  such  a  part  at  the  Theatre  Frangais  as  during  the 
reign  of  M.  Perrin,  who  came  into  power,  if  I  mistake  not, 
after  the  late  war.  He  proved  very  early  that  he  was  a 
radical,  and  he  has  introduced  a  hundred  novelties.  His 
administration,  however,  has  been  brilliant,  and  in  his  hands 
the  Theatre  Franqais  has  made  money.  This  it  had  rarely 
done  before,  and  this,  in  the  conservative  view,  is  quite 
beneath  its  dignity.  To  the  conservative  view  I  should 
humbly  incline.  An  institution  so  closely  protected  by  a 
rich  and  powerful  State  ought  to  be  able  to  cultivate  art 
for  art. 

The  first  of  M.  Sarcey's  biographies,  to  which  I  have 
been  too  long  in  coming,  is  devoted  to  Regnier,  a  veteran 
actor,  who  left  the  stage  four  or  five  years  since,  and  who 
now  fills  the  office  of  oracle  to  his  younger  comrades.  It 
is  the  indispensable  thing,  says  M.  Sarcey,  for  a  young 
aspirant  to  be  able  to  say  that  he  has  had  lessons  of  M. 
Regnier,  or  that  M.  Regnier  had  advised  him,  or  that  he 
has  talked  such  and  such  a  point  over  with  M.  Regnier. 
(His  comrades  always  speak  of  him  as  M.  Regnier — never 
as  simple  Regnier.)  I  have  had  the  fortune  to  see  him 
but  once;  it  was  the  first  time  I  ever  went  to  the  Theatre 
Francois.  He  played  Don  Annibal  in  Emile  Augier's  ro 
mantic  comedy  of  "  L'Aventuriere,"  and  I  have  not  for- 


THE  THEATRE  FRANCAIS  383 

gotten  the  exquisite  humor  of  the  performance.  The  part 
is  that  of  a  sort  of  seventeenth  century  Captain  Costigan, 
only  the  Miss  Fotheringay  in  the  case  is  the  gentleman's 
sister  and  not  his  daughter.  This  lady  is  moreover  an 
ambitious  and  designing  person,  who  leads  her  thread-bare 
braggart  of  a  brother  quite  by  the  nose.  She  has  entrapped 
a  worthy  gentleman  of  Padua,  of  mature  years,  and  he  is 
on  the  eve  of  making  her  his  wife,  when  his  son,  a  clever 
young  soldier,  beguiles  Don  Annibal  into  supping  with  him, 
and  makes  him  drink  so  deep  that  the  prating  adventurer 
at  last  lets  the  cat  out  of  the  bag  and  confides  to  his  com 
panion  that  the  fair  Clorinde  is  not  the  virtuous  gentle 
woman  she  appears,  but  a  poor  strolling  actress  who  has 
had  a  lover  at  every  stage  of  her  journey.  The  scene  was 
played  by  Bressant  and  Regnier,  and  it  has  always  remained 
in  my  mind  as  one  of  the  most  perfect  things  I  have  seen 
on  the  stage.  The  gradual  action  of  the  wine  upon  Don 
Annibal,  the  delicacy  with  which  his  deepening  tipsiness 
was  indicated,  its  intellectual  rather  than  physical  mani 
festation,  and,  in  the  midst  of  it,  the  fantastic  conceit  which 
made  him  think  that  he  was  winding  his  fellow  drinker 
round  his  fingers — all  this  was  exquisitely  rendered.  Drunk 
enness  on  the  stage  is  usually  both  dreary  and  disgusting; 
and  I  can  remember  besides  this  but  two  really  interesting 
pictures  of  intoxication  (excepting  always,  indeed,  the  im 
mortal  tipsiness  of  Cassio  in  "  Othello,"  which  a  clever 
actor  can  always  make  touching).  One  is  the  beautiful 
befuddlement  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  as  Mr.  Joseph  Jefferson 
renders  it,  and  the  other  (a  memory  of  the  Theatre  Fran- 
Qais)  the  scene  in  the  "  Due  Job,"  in  which  Got  succumbs 
to  mild  inebriation,  and  dozes  in  his  chair  just  boosily 
enough  for  the  young  girl  who  loves  him  to  make  it  out. 

It  is  to  this  admirable  Emile  Got  that  M.  Sarcey's  second 
notice   is   devoted.      Got   is   at   the   present   hour   unques- 


384  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

tionably  the  first  actor  at  the  Theatre  Francois,  and  I  have 
personally  no  hesitation  in  accepting  him  as  the  first  of 
living  actors.  His  younger  comrade,  Coquelin,  has,  I  think, 
as  much  talent  and  as  much  art ;  as  the  older  man  Got 
has  the  longer  and  fuller  record  and  may  therefore  be 
spoken  of  as  the  master.  If  I  were  obliged  to  rank  the 
half-dozen  premiers  sujets  of  the  last  few  years  at  the 
Theatre  Frangais  in  their  absolute  order  of  talent  (thank 
Heaven,  I  am  not  so  obliged!)  I  think  I  should  make  up 
some  such  little  list  as  this :  Got,  Coquelin,  Madame  Plessy, 
Sarah  Bernhardt,  Mademoiselle  Favart,  Delaunay.  I  con 
fess  that  I  have  no  sooner  written  it  than  I  feel  as  if  I 
ought  to  amend  it,  and  wonder  whether  it  is  not  a  great 
folly  to  put  Delaunay  after  Mademoiselle  Favart.  But  this 
is  idle. 

As  for  Got,  he  is  a  singularly  interesting  actor.  I  have 
often  wondered  whether  the  best  definition  of  him  would 
not  be  to  say  that  he  is  really  a  philosophic  actor.  He  is  an 
immense  humorist  and  his  comicality  is  sometimes  colossal ; 
but  his  most  striking  quality  is  the  one  on  which  M.  Sarcey 
dwells — his  sobriety  and  profundity,  his  underlying  element 
of  manliness  and  melancholy,  the  impression  he  gives  you 
of  having  a  general  conception  of  human  life  and  of  seeing 
the  relativity,  as  one  may  say,  of  the  character  he  repre 
sents.  Of  all  the  comic  actors  I  have  seen  he  is  the  least 
trivial — at  the  same  time  that  for  richness  of  detail  his  comic 
manner  is  unsurpassed.  His  repertory  is  very  large  and 
various,  but  it  may  be  divided  into  two  equal  halves — the 
parts  that  belong  to  reality  and  the  parts  that  belong  to 
fantasy.  There  is  of  course  a  great  deal  of  fantasy  in  his 
realistic  parts  and  a  great  deal  of  reality  in  his  fantastic 
ones,  but  the  general  division  is  just;  and  at  times,  indeed, 
the  two  faces  of  his  talent  seem  to  have  little  in  common. 
The  Due  Job,  to  which  I  just  now  alluded,  is  one  of  the 


THE  THEATRE  FRAN^AIS  385 

things  he  does  most  perfectly.  The  part,  which  is  that  of 
a  young  man,  is  a  serious  and  tender  one.  It  is  amazing  that 
the  actor  who  plays  it  should  also  be  able  to  carry  off 
triumphantly  the  frantic  buffoonery  of  Maitre  Pathelin,  or 
should  represent  the  Sganarelle  of  the  "Medecin  Malgre 
Lui  "  with  such  an  unctuous  breadth  of  humor.  The  two 
characters,  perhaps,  which  have  given  me  the  liveliest  idea 
of  Got's  power  and  fertility  are  the  Maitre  Pathelin  and 
the  M.  Poirier  who  figures  in  the  title  to  the  comedy  which 
Emile  Augier  and  Jules  Sandeau  wrote  together.  M. 
Poirier,  the  retired  shopkeeper  who  marries  his  daughter 
to  a  marquis  and  makes  acquaintance  with  the  incommodi- 
ties  incidental  to  such  a  piece  of  luck,  is  perhaps  the  actor's 
most  elaborate  creation;  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  the  por 
trayal  of  a  type  and  an  individual  can  have  a  larger  sweep 
and  a  more  minute  completeness.  The  bonhomme  Poirier, 
in  Got's  hands,  is  really  great;  and  half-a-dozen  of  the 
actor's  modern  parts  that  I  could  mention  are  hardly  less 
brilliant.  But  when  I  think  of  him  I  instinctively  think  first 
of  some  role  in  which  he  wears  the  cap  and  gown  of  a 
period  as  regards  which  humorous  invention  may  fairly 
take  the  bit  in  its  teeth.  This  is  what  Got  lets  it  do  in 
Maitre  Pathelin,  and  he  leads  the  spectator's  exhilarated 
fancy  a  dance  to  which  the  latter's  aching  sides  on  the 
morrow  sufficiently  testify. 

The  piece  is  a  rechauffe  of  a  mediaeval  farce  which  has 
the  credit  of  being  the  first  play  not  a  "  mystery  "  or  a 
miracle-piece  in  the  records  of  the  French  drama.  The  plot 
is  extremely  bald  and  primitive.  It  sets  forth  how  a  cun 
ning  lawyer  undertook  to  purchase  a  dozen  ells  of  cloth  for 
nothing.  In  the  first  scene  we  see  him  in  the  market-place, 
bargaining  and  haggling  with  the  draper,  and  then  marching 
off  with  the  roll  of  cloth,  with  the  understanding  that  the 
shopman  shall  call  at  his  house  in  the  course  of-  an  hour 


386  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

for  the  money.  In  the  next  act  we  have  Maitre  Pathelin  at 
his  fireside  with  his  wife,  to  whom  he  relates  his  trick  and 
its  projected  sequel,  and  who  greets  them  with  Homeric 
laughter.  He  gets  into  bed,  and  the  innocent  draper  arrives. 
Then  follows  a  scene  of  which  the  liveliest  description  must 
be  ineffective.  Pathelin  pretends  to  be  out  of  his  head, 
to  be  overtaken  by  a  mysterious  malady  which  has  made 
him  delirious,  not  to  know  the  draper  from  Adam,  never 
to  have  heard  of  the  dozen  ells  of  cloth,  and  to  be  altogether 
an  impossible  person  to  collect,  a  debt  from.  To  carry  out 
this  character  he  indulges  in  a  series  of  indescribable  antics, 
out-Bedlams  Bedlam,  frolics  over  the  room  dressed  out  in 
the  bed-clothes  and  chanting  the  wildest  gibberish,  bewilders 
the  poor  draper  to  within  an  inch  of  his  own  sanity  and 
finally  puts  him  utterly  to  rout.  The  spectacle  could  only 
be  portentously  flat  or  heroically  successful,  and  in  Got's 
hands  this  latter  was  its  fortune.  His  Sganarelle,  in  the 
"  Medicin  Malgre  Lui,"  and  half-a-dozen  of  his  characters 
from  Moliere  besides — such  a  part,  too,  as  his  Tibia,  in 
Alfred  de  Musset's  charming  bit  of  romanticism,  the  "  Ca 
prices  de  Marianne  " — have  a  certain  generic  resemblance 
with  his  treatment  of  the  figure  I  have  sketched.  In  all 
these  things  the  comicality  is  of  the  exuberant  and  tre 
mendous  order,  and  yet  in  spite  of  its  richness  and  flexi 
bility  it  suggests  little  connection  with  high  animal  spirits. 
It  seems  a  matter  of  invention,  of  reflection  and  irony. 
You  cannot  imagine  Got  representing  a  fool  pure  and  sim 
ple — or  at  least  a  passive  and  unsuspecting  fool.  There 
must  always  be  an  element  of  shrewdness  and  even  of 
contempt;  he  must  be  the  man  who  knows  and  judges — 
or  at  least  who  pretends.  It  is  a  compliment,  I  take  it, 
to  an  actor,  to  say  that  he  prompts  you  to  wonder  about  his 
private  personality;  and  an  observant  spectator  of  M.  Got 
is  at  liberty  to  guess  that  he  is  both  obstinate  and  proud. 


THE  THEATRE  FRANCAIS  387 

In  Coquelin  there  is  perhaps  greater  spontaneity,  and 
there  is  a  not  inferior  mastery  of  his  art.  He  is  a  wonder 
fully  brilliant,  elastic  actor.  He  is  but  thirty-five  years 
old,  and  yet  his  record  is  most  glorious.  He  too  has  his 
"  actual  "  and  his  classical  repertory,  and  here  also  it  is 
hard  to  choose.  As  the  young  valet  de  comcdle  in  Moliere 
and  Regnard  and  Marivaux  he  is  incomparable.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  really  infernal  brilliancy  of  his  Mascarille 
in  "  L'Etourdi.''  His  volubility,  his  rapidity,  his  impu 
dence  and  gayety,  his  ringing,  penetrating  voice  and  the 
shrill  trumpet-note  of  his  laughter,  make  him  the  ideal  of 
the  classic  serving-man  of  the  classic  young  lover — half 
rascal  and  half  good  fellow.  Coquelin  has  lately  had  two 
or  three  immense  successes  in  the  comedies  of  the  day. 
His  Due  de  Sept-Monts,  in  the  famous  "  Etrangere  "  of 
Alexandre  Dumas,  last  winter,  was  the  capital  creation  of 
the  piece ;  and  in  the  revival,  this  winter,  of  Augier's  "  Paul 
Forestier,"  his  Adolphe  de  Beaubourg,  the  young  man  about 
town,  consciously  tainted  with  commonness,  and  trying  to 
shake  off  the  incubus,  seemed  while  one  watched  it  and 
listened  to  it  the  last  word  of  delicately  humorous  art.  Of 
Coquelin's  eminence  in  the  old  comedies  M.  Sarcey  speaks 
with  a  certain  pictorial  force :  "  No  one  is  better  cut  out 
to  represent  those  bold  and  magnificent  rascals  of  the  old 
repertory,  with  their  boisterous  gayety,  their  brilliant  fancy 
and  their  superb  extravagance,  who  give  to  their  buffoonery 
je  ne  sals  quoi  d'e pique.  In  these  parts  one  may  say  of 
Coquelin  that  he  is  incomparable.  I  prefer  him  to  Got  in 
such  cases,  and  even  to  Regnier,  his  master.  I  never  saw 
Monrose,  and  cannot  speak  of  him.  But  good  judges  have 
assured  me  that  there  was  much  that  was  factitious  in  the 
manner  of  this  eminent  comedian,  and  that  his  vivacity  was 
a  trifle  mechanical.  There  is  nothing  whatever  of  this  in 
Coquelin's  manner.  The  eye,  the  nose,  and  the  voice — the 


388  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

voice  above  all — are  his  most  powerful  means  of  action. 
He  launches  his  tirades  all  in  one  breath,  with  full  lungs, 
without  troubling  himself  too  much  over  the  shading  of 
details,  in  large  masses,  and  he  possesses  himself  only  the 
more  strongly  of  the  public,  which  has  a  great  sense  of 
ensemble.  The  words  that  must  be  detached,  the  words 
that  must  decisively  '  tell,'  glitter  in  this  delivery  with  the 
sonorous  ring  of  a  brand-new  louis  d'or.  Crispin,  Scapin, 
Figaro,  Mascarille  have  never  found  a  more  valiant  and 
joyous  interpreter." 

I  should  say  that  this  was  enough  about  the  men  at  the 
Theatre  Frangais,  if  I  did  not  remember  that  I  have  not 
spoken  of  Delaunay.  But  Delaunay  has  plenty  of  people 
to  speak  for  him ;  he  has,  in  especial,  the  more  eloquent  half 
of  humanity — the  ladies.  I  suppose  that  of  all  the  actors 
of  the  Comedie  Frangaise  he  is  the  most  universally  appre 
ciated  and  admired;  he  is  the  popular  favorite.  And  he 
has  certainly  earned  this  distinction,  for  there  was  never 
a  more  amiable  and  sympathetic  genius.  He  plays  the 
young  lovers  of  the  past  and  the  present,  and  he  acquits 
himself  of  his  difficult  and  delicate  task  with  extraordinary 
grace  and  propriety.  The  danger  I  spoke  of  a  while  since 
— the  danger,  for  the  actor  of  a  romantic  and  sentimental 
part,  of  being  compromised  by  the  coat  and  trousers,  the 
hat  and  umbrella  of  the  current  year — are  reduced  by 
Delaunay  to  their  minimum.  He  reconciles  in  a  marvelous 
fashion  the  love-sick  gallant  of  the  ideal  world  with  the 
"  gentlemanly  man  "  of  to-day ;  and  his  passion  is  as  far 
removed  from  rant  as  his  propriety  is  from  stiffness.  He 
has  been  accused  of  late  years  of  falling  into  a  mannerism, 
and  I  think  there  is  some  truth  in  the  charge.  But  the 
fault  in  Delaunay's  situation  is  certainly  venial.  How  can 
a  man  of  fifty,  to  whom,  as  regards  face  and  figure,  Nature 
has  been  stingy,  play  an  amorous  swain  of  twenty  without 


THE  THEATRE  FRANCAIS  389 

taking  refuge  in  a  mannerism?  His  mannerism  is  a  legiti 
mate  device  for  diverting  the  spectator's  attention  from  cer 
tain  incongruities.  Delaunay 's  juvenility,  his  ardor,  his 
passion,  his  good  taste  and  sen.se  of  fitness,  have  always  an 
irresistible  charm.  As  he  has  grown  older  he  has  increased 
his  repertory  by  parts  of  greater  weight  and  sobriety — he  has 
played  the  husbands  as  well  as  the  lovers.  One  of  his  most 
recent  and  brilliant  "  creations  "  of  this  kind  is  his  Mar 
quis  de  Presles  in  "  Le  Gendre  de  M.  Poirier  " — a  piece 
of  acting  superb  for  its  lightness  and  dcsinvolture.  It  can 
not  be  better  praised  than  by  saying  it  was  worthy  of  Got's 
inimitable  rendering  of  the  part  opposed  to  it.  But  I  think 
I  shall  remember  Delaunay  best  in  the  picturesque  and  ro 
mantic  comedies — as  the  Due  de  Richelieu  in  "  Mile.  De 
Belle-Isle'';  as  the  joyous,  gallant,  exuberant  young  hero, 
his  plumes  and  love  knots  fluttering  in  the  breath  of  his 
gushing  improvisation,  of  Corneille's  "  Menteur  " ;  or,  most 
of  all,  as  the  melodious  swains  of  those  charmingly  poetic, 
faintly,  naturally  Shakespearean  little  comedies  of  Alfred 
de  Musset. 

To  speak  of  Delaunay  ought  to  bring  us  properly  to 
Mademoiselle  Favart,  who  for  so  many  years  invariably 
represented  the  object  of  his  tender  invocations.  Mademoi 
selle  Favart  at  the  present  time  rather  lacks  what  the  French 
call  "  actuality."  She  has  recently  made  an  attempt  to 
recover  something  of  that  large  measure  of  it  which  she 
once  possessed ;  but  I  doubt  whether  it  has  been  completely 
successful.  M.  Sarcey  has  not  yet  put  forth  his  notice 
of  her;  and  when  he  does  so  it  will  be  interesting  to  see 
how  he  treats  her.  She  is  not  one  of  his  high  admirations. 
She  is  a  great  talent  that  has  passed  into  eclipse.  I  call 
her  a  great  talent,  although  I  remember  the  words  in  which 
M.  Sarcey  somewhere  speaks  of  her :  "  Mile.  Favart,  who, 
to  happy  natural  gifts,  soutenus  par  un  travail  acharne, 


39°  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

owed  a  distinguished  place,"  etc.  Her  talent  is  great,  but 
the  impression  that  she  gives  of  a  travail  acharne  and  of  an 
insatiable  ambition  is  perhaps  even  greater.  For  many  years 
she  reigned  supreme,  and  I  believe  she  is  accused  of  not 
having  always  reigned  generously.  However  that  may  be, 
there  came  a  day  when  Mesdemoiselles  Croizette  and  Sarah 
Bernhardt  passed  to  the  front  and  the  elder  actress  receded, 
if  not  into  the  background,  at  least  into  what  painters  call 
the  middle  distance.  The  private  history  of  these  events 
has,  I  believe,  been  rich  in  heart-burnings;  but  it  is  only 
with  the  public  history  that  we  are  concerned.  Mademoiselle 
Favart  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  powerful  rather  than 
an  interesting  actress ;  there  is  usually  something  mechanical 
and  overdone  in  her  manner.  In  some  of  her  parts  there 
is  a  kind  of  audible  creaking  of  the  machinery.  If  Delau- 
nay  is  open  to  the  reproach  of  having  let  a  mannerism  get 
the  better  of  him,  this  accusation  is  much  more  fatally  true 
of  Mademoiselle  Favart.  On  the  other  hand,  she  knows 
her  trade  as  no  one  does — no  one,  at  least,  save  Madame 
Plessy.  When  she  is  bad  she  is  extremely  bad,  and  some 
times  she  is  interruptedly  bad  for  a  whole  evening.  In  the 
revival  of  Scribe's  clever  comedy  of  "  Une  Chaine,"  this 
winter  (which,  by  the  way,  though  the  cast  included  both 
Got  and  Coquelin,  was  the  nearest  approach  to  mediocrity 
I  have  ever  seen  at  the  Theatre  Frangais),  Mademoiselle 
Favart  was,  to  my  sense,  startlingly  bad.  The  part  had 
originally  been  played  by  Madame  Plessy;  and  I  remem 
ber  how  M.  Sarcey  in  his  fcuilleton  treated  its  actual  repre 
sentative.  "  Mademoiselle  Favart  does  Louise.  Who  does 
not  recall  the  exquisite  delicacy  and  temperance  with  which 
Mme.  Plessy  rendered  that  difficult  scene  in  the  second 
act  ?  ''  etc.  And  nothing  more.  When,  however,  Mademoi 
selle  Favart  is  at  her  best,  she  is  remarkably  strong.  She 
rises  to  great  occasions.  I  doubt  whether  such  parts  as 


THE  THEATRE  FRANCAIS  391 

the  desperate  heroine  of  the  "  Supplice  d'une  Femme,"  or 
as  Julie  in  Octave  Feuillet's  lugubrious  drama  of  that  name, 
could  be  more  effectively  played  than  she  plays  them.  She 
can  carry  a  great  weight  without  flinching;  she  has  what 
the  French  call  "  authority  " ;  and  in  declamation  she  some 
times  unrolls  her  fine  voice,  as  it  were,  in  long  harmonious 
waves  and  cadences  the  sustained  power  of  which  her 
younger  rivals  must  often  envy  her. 

I  am  drawing  to  the  close  of  these  rather  desultory  obser 
vations  without  having  spoken  of  the  four  ladies  com 
memorated  by  M.  Sarcey  in  the  publication  which  lies  before 
me;  and  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  justify  my  tardiness 
otherwise  than  by  saying  that  writing  and  reading  about 
artists  of  so  extreme  a  personal  brilliancy  is  poor  work,  and 
that  the  best  the  critic  can  do  is  to  wish  his  reader  may 
see  them,  from  a  quiet  fauteml,  as  speedily  and  as  often 
as  possible.  Of  Madeleine  Brohan,  .indeed,  there  is  little 
to  say.  She  is  a  delightful  person  to  listen  to,  and  she  is 
still  delightful  to  look  at,  in  spite  of  that  redundancy  of 
contour  which  time  has  contributed  to  her  charms.  But 
she  has  never  been  ambitious  and  her  talent  has  had  no 
particularly  original  quality.  It  is  a  long  time  since  she 
created  an  important  part ;  but  in  the  old  repertory  her  rich, 
dense  voice,  her  charming  smile,  her  mellow,  tranquil  gayety, 
always  give  extreme  pleasure.  To  hear  her  sit  and  talk,  simply, 
and  laugh  and  play  with  her  fan,  along  with  Madame  Plessy, 
in  Moliere's  "  Critique  de  1'Ecole  des  Femmes,"  is  an  enter 
tainment  to  be  remembered.  For  Madame  Plessy  I  should 
have  to  mend  my  pen  and  begin  a  new  chapter;  and  for 
Mademoiselle  Sarah  Bernhardt  no  less  a  ceremony  would 
suffice.  I  saw  Madame  Plessy  for  the  first  time  in  Emile 
Augier's  "  Aventuriere/'  when,  as  I  mentioned,  I  first  saw 
Regnier.  This  is  considered  by  many  persons  her  best 
part,  and  she  certainly  carries  it  off  with  a  high  hand; 


392  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

but  I  like  her  better  in  characters  which  afford  more  scope 
to  her  talents  for  comedy.  These  characters  are  very  nu 
merous,  for  her  activity  and  versatility  have  been  extraor 
dinary.  Her  comedy  of  course  is  "  high  " ;  it  is  of  the  highest 
conceivable  kind,  and  she  has  often  been  accused  of  being 
too  mincing  and  too  artificial.  I  should  never  make  this 
charge,  for,  to  me,  Madame  Plessy's  minauderles,  her  grand 
airs  and  her  arch-refinements,  have  never  been  anything 
but  the  odorous  swayings  and  queenly  tossings  of  some 
splendid  garden  flower.  Never  had  an  actress  grander 
manners.  When  Madame  Plessy  represents  a  duchess  you 
have  no  allowances  to  make.  Her  limitations  are  on  the 
side  of  the  pathetic.  If  she  is  brilliant,  she  is  cold;  and  I 
cannot  imagine  her  touching  the  source  of  tears.  But  she 
is  in  the  highest  degree  accomplished ;  she  gives  an  impres 
sion  of  intelligence  and  intellect  which  is  produced  by  none 
of  her  companions — excepting  always  the  extremely  excep 
tional  Sarah  Bernhardt.  Madame  Plessy's  intellect  has 
sometimes  misled  her — as,  for  instance,  when  it  whispered 
to  her,  a  few  years  since,  that  she  could  play  Agrippine  in 
Racine's  "  Britannicus,"  on  that  tragedy  being  presented 
for  the  debuts  of  Motinet-Sully.  I  was  verdant  enough  to 
think  her  Agrippine  very  fine.  But  M.  Sarcey  reminds  his 
readers  of  what  he  said  of  it  the  Monday  after  the  first 
performance.  "  I  will  not  say  " — he  quotes  himself — "  that 
Madame  Plessy  is  indifferent.  With  her  intelligence,  her 
natural  gifts,  her  great  situation,  her  immense  authority 
over  the  public,  one  cannot  be  indifferent  in  anything.  She 
is  therefore  not  indifferently  bad.  She  is  bad  to  a  point 
that  cannot  be  expressed  and  that  would  be  distressing  for 
dramatic  art  if  it  were  not  that  in  this  great  shipwreck  there 
rise  to  the  surface  a  few  floating  fragments  of  the  finest 
qualities  that  nature  has  ever  bestowed  upon  an  artist." 
Madame  Plessy  retired  from  the  stage  six  months  ago 


THE  THEATRE  FRANCAIS  393 

and  it  may  be  said  that  the  void  produced  by  this  event  is 
irreparable.  There  is  not  only  no  prospect,  but  there  is  no 
hope  of  filling  it  up.  The  present  conditions  of  artistic 
production  are  directly  hostile  to  the  formation  of  actresses 
as  consummate  and  as  complete  as  Madame  Plessy.  One 
may  not  expect  to  see  her  like,  any  more  than  one  may  ex 
pect  to  see  a  new  manufacture  of  old  lace  and  old  brocade. 
She  carried  off  with  her  something  that  the  younger  gen 
eration  of  actresses  will  consistently  lack — a  certain  large 
ness  of  style  and  robustness  of  art.  (These  qualities  are 
in  a  modified  degree  those  of  Mademoiselle  Favart.)  But  if 
the  younger  actresses  have  the  success  of  Mesdemoiselles 
Croizette  and  Sarah  Bernhardt,  will  they  greatly  care 
whether  they  are  not  "  robust "  ?  These  young  ladies  are 
children  of  a  later  and  eminently  contemporary  type,  accord 
ing  to  which  an  actress  undertakes  not  to  interest  but  to 
fascinate.  They  are  charming — "awfully"  charming; 
strange,  eccentric,  imaginative.  It  would  be  needless  to 
speak  specifically  of  Mademoiselle  Croizette;  for  although 
she  has  very  great  attractions  I  think  she  may  (by  the  cold 
impartiality  of  science)  be  classified  as  a  secondary,  a  less 
inspired  and  (to  use  the  great  word  of  the  day)  a  more 
"brutal"  Sarah  Bernhardt.  (Mademoiselle  Croizette's 
"  brutality  "  is  her  great  card.)  As  for  Mademoiselle  Sarah 
Bernhardt,  she  is  simply,  at  present,  in  Paris,  one  of  the 
great  figures  of  the  day.  It  would  be  hard  to  imagine  a 
more  brilliant  embodiment  of  feminine  success ;  she  deserves 
a  chapter  for  herself. 
December,  1876. 


THEOCRITUS  ON  CAPE  COD 
HAMILTON  WRIGHT  MABIE 

CAPE  COD  lies  at  the  other  end  of  the  world  from  Sicily 
not  only  in  distance,  but  in  the  look  of  it,  the  lay  of  it,  the 
way  of  it.  It  is  so  far  off  that  it  offers  a  base  from  which 
one  may  get  a  fresh  view  of  Theocritus. 

There  are  very  pleasant  villages  on  the  Cape,  in  the  wide 
shade  of  ancient  elms,  set  deep  in  the  old-time  New  Eng 
land  quiet.  For  there  was  a  time  before  the  arrival  of  the 
Syrians,  the  Armenians,  and  the  automobile,  when  New 
England  was  in  a  meditative  mood.  But  Cape  Cod  is  really 
a  ridge  of  sand  with  a  backbone  of  soil,  rashly  thrust  into 
the  Atlantic,  and  as  fluent  and  volatile,  so  to  speak,  as  one 
of  those  far  Western  rivers  that  are  shifting  currents  sub 
limely  indifferent  to  private  ownership.  The  Cape  does 
not  lack  stability,  but  it  shifts  its  lines  with  easy  disregard 
of  charts  and  boundaries,  and  remains  stable  only  at  its 
center;  it  is  always  fraying  at  the  edges.  It  lies,  too,  on 
the  western  edge  of  the  ocean  stream,  where  the  forces  of 
land  and  sea  are  often  at  war  and  the  palette  of  colors  is 
limited.  The  sirocco  does  not  sift  fine  sand  through  every 
crevice  and  fill  the  heart  of  man  with  murderous  impulses; 
but  the  east  wind  diffuses  a  kind  of  elemental  depression. 

Sicily,  on  the  other  hand,  is  high-built  on  rocky  founda 
tions,  and  is  the  wide-spreading  reach  of  a  great  volcano 
sloping  broadly  and  leisurely  to  the  sea.  It  is  often  shaken 
at  its  center,  but  the  sea  does  not  take  from  nor  add  to  its 
substance  at  will.  It  lies  in  the  very  heart  of  a  sea  of 

394 


THEOCRITUS  ON  CAPE  COD  395 

such  ravishing  color  that  by  sheer  fecundity  of  beauty  it 
has  given  birth  to  a  vast  fellowship  of  gods  and  divinely  fash 
ioned  creatures;  its  slopes  are  white  with  billowy  masses 
of  almond  blossoms  in  that  earlier  spring  which  is  late 
winter  on  Cape  Cod ;  while  gray-green,  gnarled,  and  twisted 
olive-trees  bear  witness  to  the  passionate  moods  of  the 
Mediterranean,  mother  of  poetry,  comedy,  and  tragedy, 
often  asleep  in  a  dream  of  beauty  in  which  the  shadowy 
figures  of  the  oldest  time  move,  often  as  violent  as  the 
North  Atlantic  when  March  torments  it  with  furious  moods. 
For  the  Mediterranean  is  as  seductive,  beguiling,  and  un 
certain  of  temper  as  Cleopatra,  as  radiant  as  Hera,  as 
voluptuous  as  Aphrodite.  Put  in  terms  of  color,  it  is  as 
different  from  the  sea  round  Cape  Cod  as  a  picture  by 
Sorolla  is  different  from  a  picture  by  Mauve. 

Theocritus  is  interested  in  the  magic  of  the  island  rather 
than  in  the  mystery  of  the  many-sounding  sea,  and  to  him 
the  familiar  look  of  things  is  never  edged  like  a  photograph ; 
it  is  as  solid  and  real  as  a  report  of  the  Department  of 
Agriculture,  but  a  mist  of  poetry  is  spread  over  it,  in  which, 
as  in  a  Whistler  nocturne,  many  details  harmonize  in  a 
landscape  at  once  actual  and  visionary.  There  is  no  ex 
ample  in  literature  of  the  unison  of  sight  and  vision  more 
subtly  and  elusively  harmonious  than  the  report  of  Sicily 
in  the  Idylls.  In  its  occupations  the  island  was  as  prosaic 
as  Cape  Cod,  and  lacked  the  far-reaching  consciousness  of 
the  great  world  which  is  the  possession  of  every  populated 
sand-bar  in  the  Western  world ;  but  it  was  enveloped  in  an 
atmosphere  in  which  the  edges  of  things  were  lost  in  a  sense 
of  their  rootage  in  poetic  relations,  and  of  interrelations  so 
elusive  and  immaterial  that  a  delicate  but  persistent  charm 
exhaled  from  them. 

Sicily  was  a  solid  and  stubborn  reality  thousands  of  years 
before  Theocritus  struck  his  pastoral  lyre ;  but  its  most 


396  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

obvious  quality  was  atmospheric.  It  was  compacted  of 
facts,  but  they  were  seen  not  as  a  camera  sees,  but  as  an 
artist  sees ;  not  in  sharp  outline  and  hard  actuality,  but 
softened  by  a  flood  of  light  which  melts  all  hard  lines  in  a 
landscape  vibrant  and  shimmering.  Our  landscape-painters 
are  now  reporting  Nature  as  Theocritus  saw  her  in  Sicily ; 
the  value  of  the  overtone  matching  the  value  of  the  under 
tone,  to  quote  an  artist's  phrase,  "  apply  these  tones  in  right 
proportions,"  writes  Mr.  Harrison,  "  and  you  will  find  that 
the  sky  painted  with  the  perfectly  matched  tone  will  fly 
away  indefinitely,  will  be  bathed  in  a  perfect  atmosphere/' 
We  who  have  for  a  time  lost  the  poetic  mood  and  strayed 
from  the  poet's  standpoint  paint  the  undertones  with  entire 
fidelity ;  but  we  do  not  paint  in  the  overtones,  and  the  land 
scape  loses  the  luminous  and  vibrant  quality  which  comes 
into  it  when  the  sky  rains  light  upon  it.  We  see  with  the 
accuracy  of  the  camera;  we  do  not  see  with  the  vision  of 
the  poet,  in  which  reality  is  not  sacrificed,  but  subdued  to 
larger  uses.  We  insist  on  the  scientific  fact;  the  poet  is 
intent  on  the  visual  fact.  The  one  gives  the  bare  structure 
of  the  landscape ;  the  other  gives  us  its  color,  atmosphere, 
charm.  Here,  perhaps,  is  the  real  difference  between  Cape 
Cod  and  Sicily.  It  is  not  so  much  a  contrast  between  en 
circling  seas  and  the  sand-ridge  and  rock-ridge  as  between 
the  two  ways  of  seeing,  the  scientific  and  the  poetic. 

The  difference  of  soils  must  also  be  taken  into  account. 
The  soil  of  history  on  Cape  Cod  is  almost  as  thin  as  the 
physical  soil,  which  is  so  light  and  detached  that  it  is  blown 
about  by  all  the  winds  of  heaven.  In  Sicily,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  soil  is  so  much  a  part  of  the  substance  of  the 
island  that  the  sirocco  must  bring  from  the  shores  of  Africa 
the  fine  particles  with  which  it  tortures  men.  On  Cape 
Cod  there  are  a  few  colonial  traditions,  many  heroic  memo 
ries  of  brave  deeds  in  awful  seas,  some  records  of  pros- 


THEOCRITUS  ON  CAPE  COD  397 

perous  daring  in  fishing-ships,  and  then  the  advent  of  the 
summer  colonists ;  a  creditable  history,  but  of  so  recent 
date  that  it  has  not  developed  the  fructifying  power  of  a 
rich  soil,  out  of  which  atmosphere  rises  like  an  exhalation. 
In  Sicily,  on  the  other  hand,  the  soil  of  history  is  so  deep 
that  the  spade  of  the  archaeologist  has  not  touched  bottom, 
and  even  the  much-toiling  Freeman  found  four  octavo 
volumes  too  cramped  to  tell  the  whole  story,  and  merci 
fully  stopped  at  the  death  of  Agathocles. 

Since  the  beginning  of  history,  which  means  only  the 
brief  time  since  we  began  to  remember  events,  everybody»has 
gone  to  Sicily,  and  most  people  have  stayed  there  until  they 
were  driven  on,  or  driven  out,  by  later  comers ;  and  almost 
everybody  has  been  determined  to  keep  the  island  for  him 
self,  and  set  about  it  with  an  ingenuity  and  energy  of 
slaughter  which  make  the  movement  toward  universal  peace 
seem  pallid  and  nerveless.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  on  no  bit 
of  ground  of  equal  area  has  more  history  been  enacted  than 
in  Sicily;  and  when  Theocritus  was  young,  Sicily  was  al 
ready  venerable  with  years  and  experience. 

Now,  history,  using  the  word  as  signifying  things  which 
have  happened,  although  enacted  on  the  ground,  gets  into 
the  air,  and  one  often  feels  it  before  he  knows  it.  In  this 
volatile  and  pervasive  form  it  is  diffused  over  the  land 
scape  and  becomes  atmospheric ;  and  atmosphere,  it  must 
be  remembered,  bears  the  same  relation  to  air  that  the  coun 
tenance  bears  to  the  face :  it  reveals  and  expresses  what  is 
behind  the  physical  features.  There  is  hardly  a  half-mile 
of  Sicily  below  the  upper  ridges  of  yEtna  that  has  not  been 
fought  over;  and  the  localities  are  few  which  cannot  show 
the  prints  of  the  feet  of  the  gods  or  of  the  heroes  who  were 
their  children. 

It  was  a  very  charming  picture  on  which  the  curtain 
was  rolled  up  when  history  began,  but  the  island  was  not 


398  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

a  theater  in  which  men  sat  at  ease  and  looked  at  Persephone 
in  the  arms  of  Pluto;  it  was  an  arena  in  which  race  fol 
lowed  close  upon  race,  like  the  waves  of  the  sea,  each  rising 
a  little  higher  and  gaining  a  little  wider  sweep,  and  each 
leaving  behind  not  only  wreckage,  but  layers  of  soil  potent 
in  vitality.  The  island  was  as  full  of  strange  music,  of 
haunting  presences,  of  far-off  memories  of  tragedy,  as  the 
island  of  the  Tempest:  it  bred  its  Calibans,  but  it  bred 
also  its  Prosperos.  For  the  imagination  is  nourished  by 
rich  associations  as  an  artist  is  fed  by  a  beautiful  landscape ; 
and  in  Sicily  men  grew  up  in  an  invisible  world  of  memo 
ries  that  spread  a  heroic  glamor  over  desolate  places  and 
kept  Olympus  within  view  of  the  mountain  pastures  where 
rude  shepherds  cut  their  pipes : 

"  A  pipe  discoursing  through  nine  mouths  I  made,  full  fair  to  view ; 
The  wax  is  white  thereon,  the  line  of  this  and  that  edge  true." 

The  soil  of  history  may  be  so  rich  that  it  nourishes  all 
manner  of  noxious  things  side  by  side  with  flowers  of  glori 
ous  beauty;  this  is  the  price  we  pay  for  fertility.  A  thin 
soil,  on  the  other  hand,  sends  a  few  flowers  of  delicate  struc 
ture  and  haunting  fragrance  into  the  air,  like  the  arbutus 
and  the  witchiana,  which  express  the  clean,  dry  sod  of  Cape 
Cod,  and  are  symbolic  of  the  poverty  and  purity  of  its 
history.  Thoreau  reports  that  in  one  place  he  saw  adver 
tised,  "  Fine  sand  for  sale  here,"  and  he  ventures  the  sug 
gestion  that  "  some  of  the  street "  had  been  sifted.  And, 
possibly,  with  a  little  tinge  of  malice  after  his  long  fight 
with  winds  and  shore-drifts,  he  reports  that  "  in  some  pic 
tures  of  Provincetown  the  persons  of  the  inhabitants  are 
not  drawn  below  the  ankles,  so  much  being  supposed  to  be 
buried  in  the  sand."  "  Nevertheless,"  he  continues,  "  na 
tives  of  Provincetown  assured  me  that  they  could  walk  in 
the  middle  of  the  road  without  trouble,  even  in  slippers, 


THEOCRITUS  ON  CAPE  COD  399 

for  they  had  learned  how  to  put  their  feet  down  and  lift 
them  up  without  taking  in  any  sand."  On  a  soil  so  light 
and  porous  there  is  a  plentiful  harvesting  of  health  and 
substantial  comfort,  but  not  much  chance  of  poetry. 

In  the  country  of  Theocritus  there  was  great  chance  for 
poetry;  not  because  anybody  was  taught  anything,  but  be 
cause  everybody  was  born  in  an  atmosphere  that  was  a 
diffused  poetry.  If  this  had  not  been  true,  the  poet  could 
not  have  spread  a  soft  mist  of  poesy  over  the  whole  island : 
no  man  works  that  kind  of  magic  unaided ;  he  compounds 
his  potion  out  of  simples  culled  from  the  fields  round  him. 
Theocritus  does  not  disguise  the  rudeness  of  the  life  he 
describes ;  goat-herds  and  he-goats  are  not  the  conventional 
properties  of  the  poetic  stage.  The  poet  was  without  a 
touch  of  the  drawing-room  consciousness  of  crude  things, 
though  he  knew  well  softness  and  charm  of  life  in  Syracuse 
under  a  tyrant  who  did  not  "  patronize  the  arts,"  but  was 
instructed  by  them.  To  him  the  distinction  between  poetic 
and  unpoetic  things  was  not  in  the  appearance,  but  in  the 
root.  He  was  not  ashamed  of  Nature  as  he  found  her,  and 
he  never  apologized  for  her  coarseness  by  avoiding  things 
not  fit  for  refined  eyes.  His  shepherds  and  goat-herds  are 
often  gross  and  unmannerly,  and  as  stuffed  with  noisy  abuse 
as  Shakespeare's  people  in  "  Richard  III."  Lacon  and 
Cometas,  rival  poets  of  the  field,  are  having  a  controversy, 
and  this  is  the  manner  of  their  argument : 

" LACON 

"  When  learned  I  from  thy  practice  or  thy  preaching  aught  that's 

right, 
Thou  puppet,  thou  mis-shapen  lump  of  ugliness  and  spite? 

" COMETAS 

"When?     When  I  beat  thee,  wailing  sore;  your  goats  looked  on 

with  glee, 
And  bleated ;  and  were  dealt  with  e'en  as  I  had  dealt  with  thee." 


40O  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

And  then,  without  a  pause,  the  landscape  shines  through 
the   noisy   talk: 

"  Nay,  here  are  oaks  and  galingale :  the  hum  of  housing  bees 
Makes  the  place  pleasant,  and  the  birds  are  piping  in  the  trees, 
And  here  are  two  cold  streamlets;  here  deeper  shadows  fall 
Than  yon  place  owns,  and  look  what  cones  drop  from  the  pine 
tree  tall." 

Thoreau,  to  press  the  analogy  from  painting  a  little 
further,  lays  the  undertones  on  with  a  firm  hand :  "  It  is  a 
wild,  rank  place  and  there  is  no  flattery  in  it.  Strewn  with 
crabs,  horse-shoes,  and  razor-clams,  and  whatever  the  sea 
casts  up, — a  vast  morgue,  where  famished  dogs  may  range 
in  packs,  and  cows  come  daily  to  glean  the  pittance  which 
the  tide  leaves  them.  The  carcasses  of  men  and  beasts  to 
gether  lie  stately  up  upon  its  shelf,  rotting  and  bleaching 
in  the  sun  and  waves,  and  each  tide  turns  them  in  their 
beds,  and  tucks  fresh  sand  under  them.  There  is  naked 
Nature, — inhumanely  sincere,  wasting  no  thought  on  man, 
nibbling  at  the  cliffy  shore  where  gulls  wheel  amid  the 
spray.'* 

It  certainly  is  naked  Nature  with  a  vengeance,  and  it 
was  hardly  fair  to  take  her  portrait  in  that  condition. 
Theocritus  would  have  shown  us  Acteon  surprising  Artemis, 
not  naked,  but  nude ;  and  there  is  all  the  difference  between 
nakedness  and  nudity  that  yawns  between  a  Greek  statue 
and  a  Pompeiian  fresco  indiscreetly  preserved  in  the  mu 
seum  at  Naples.  Theocritus  shows  Nature  nude,  but  not 
naked;  and  it  is  worth  noting  that  the  difference  between 
the  two  lies  in  the  presence  or  absence  of  consciousness.  In 
Greek  mythology,  nudity  passes  without  note  or  comment; 
the  moment  it  begins  to  be  noted  and  commented  upon  it 
becomes  nakedness. 

Theocritus  sees  Nature  nude,  as  did  all  the  Greek  poets, 


THEOCRITUS  ON  CAPE  COD  401 

but  he  does  not  surprise  her  when  she  is  naked.  He  paints 
the  undertones  faithfully,  but  he  always  lays  on  the  over 
tones,  and  so  spreads  the  effulgence  of  the  sky-stream  over 
the  undertones,  and  the  picture  becomes  vibrant  and  lu 
minous.  The  fact  is  never  slurred  or  ignored;  it  gets  full 
value,  but  not  as  a  solitary  and  detached  thing  untouched 
by  light,  unmodified  by  the  landscape.  Is  there  a  more 
charming  impression  of  a  landscape  bathed  in  atmosphere, 
exhaling  poetry,  breathing  in  the  very  presence  of  divinity, 
than  this,  in  Calverley's  translation : 

"  I  ceased.     He,  smiling  sweetly  as  before, 
Gave  me  the  staff,  'the  Muses"  parting  gift, 
And  leftward  sloped  toward  Pyxa.     We  the  while 
Bent  us  to  Phrasydene's,  Eucritus  and  I, 
And  baby-faced  Amyntas :  there  we  lay 
Half-buried  in  a  couch  of  fragrant  reed 
And  fresh-cut  vine  leaves,  who  so  glad  as  we? 
A  wealth  of  elm  and  poplar  shook  o'erhead; 
Hard  by,  a  sacred  spring  flowed  gurgling  on 
From  the  Nymphs'  grot,  and  in  the  somber  boughs 
The  sweet  cicada  chirped  laboriously. 
Hid  in  the  thick  thorn-bushes  far  away 
The  tree  frog's  note  was  heard ;  the  crested  lark 
Sang  with  the  goldfinch ;  turtles  made  their  moan ; 
And  o'er  the  fountain  hung  the  gilded  bee. 
All  of  rich  summer  smacked,  of  autumn  all : 
Pears  at  our  feet,  and  apples  at  our  side 
Rolled  in  luxuriance ;  branches  on  the  ground 
Sprawled,  overweighted  with  damsons ;  while  we  brushed 
From  the  cask's  head  the  crust  of  four  long  years. 
Say,  ye  who  dwell  upon  Parnassian  peaks, 
Nymphs  of  Castalia,  did  old  Chiron  e'er 
Set  before  Hercules  a  cup  so  brave 
In  Pholus'  cavern — did  as  nectarous  draughts 
Cause  that  Anapian  shepherd,  in  whose  hand 
Rocks  were  as  pebbles,  Polypheme  the  strong, 
Featly  to  foot  it  o'er  the  cottage  lawns : — 
As,  ladies,  ye  bid  flow  that  day  for  us 
All  by  Demeter's  shrine  at  harvest-home? 
Beside  whose  corn-stacks  may  I  oft  again 
Plant  my  broad  fan :  while  she  stands  by  and  smiles, 
Poppies  and  corn-sheaves  on  each  laden  arm." 


4O2  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

Here  is  the  landscape  seen  with  a  poet's  eye;  and  the 
color  and  shining  quality  of  a  landscape,  it  must  be  remem 
bered,  are  in  the  exquisitely  sensitive  eye  that  sees,  not 
in  the  structure  and  substance  upon  which  it  rests.  The 
painter  and  poet  create  nature  as  really  as  they  create  art, 
for  in  every  clear  sight  of  the  world  we  are  not  passive 
receivers  of  impressions,  but  partners  in  that  creative  work 
which  makes  nature  as  contemporaneous  as  the  morning 
newspaper. 

It  is  true,  Sicily  was  poetic  in  its  very  structure  while 
Cape  Cod  is  poetic  only  in  oases,  bits  of  old  New  England 
shade  and  tracery  of  elms,  the  peace  of  ancient  sincerity 
and  content  honestly  housed,  the  changing  color  of  marshes 
in  whose  channels  the  tides  are  singing  or  mute;  but  the 
Sicily  of  Theocritus  was  seen  by  the  poetic  eye.  In  every 
complete  vision  of  a  landscape  what  is  behind  the  eye  is 
as  important  as  what  lies  before  it,  and  behind  the  eyes 
that  looked  at  Sicily  in  the  third  century,  B.C.,  there  were 
not  only  the  memories  of  many  generations,  but  there  was 
also  a  faith  in  visible  and  invisible  creatures  which  peopled 
the  world  with  divinities.  The  text  of  Theocritus  is  starred 
with  the  names  of  gods  and  goddesses,  of  heroes  and  poets : 
it  is  like  a  rich  tapestry,  on  the  surface  of  which  history 
has  been  woven  in  beautiful  colors ;  the  flat  surface  dis 
solves  in  a  vast  distance,  and  the  dull  warp  and  woof  glows 
with  moving  life. 

The  Idylls  are  saturated  with  religion,  and  as  devoid 
of  piety  as  a  Bernard  Shaw  play.  Gods  and  men  differ 
only  in  their  power,  not  at  all  in  their  character.  What 
we  call  morals  were  as  conspicuously  absent  from  Olympus 
as  from  Sicily.  In  both  places  life  and  the  world  are  taken 
in  their  obvious  intention ;  there  was  no  attempt,  apart  from 
the  philosophers,  who  are  always  an  inquisitive  folk,  to 
discover  either  the  mind  or  the  heart  of  things.  In  the 


THEOCRITUS  ON  CAPE  COD  403 

Greek  Bible,  which  Homer  composed  and  recited  to  crowds 
of  people  on  festive  occasions,  the  fear  of  the  gods  and 
their  vengeance  are  set  forth  in  a  text  of  unsurpassed  force 
and  vitality  of  imagination ;  but  no  god  in  his  most  dissolute 
mood  betrays  any  moral  consciousness,  and  no  man  repents 
of  sins.  That  things  often  go  wrong  was  as  obvious  then  as 
now,  but  there  was  no  sense  of  sin.  There  were  Greeks 
who  prayed,  but  none  who  put  dust  on  his  head  and  beat 
his  breast  and  cried,  "  Woe  unto  me,  a  sinner !  "  There 
were  disasters  by  land  and  sea,  but  no  newspaper  spread 
them  out  in  shrieking  type,  and  by  skillful  omission  and 
selection  of  topics  wore  the  semblance  of  an  official  report 
of  a  madhouse;  there  were  diseases  and  deaths,  but  patent- 
medicine  advertisements  had  not  saturated  the  common 
mind  with  ominous  symptoms;  old  age  was  present  with 
its  monitions  of  change  and  decay : 

"Age   o'ertakes   us   all; 

Our   tempers  first;   then   on   o'er  cheek  and   chin, 
Slowly  and   surely,   creep   the   frosts   of   Time. 
Up  and  go  somewhere,   ere  thy  limbs   are  sere." 

Theocritus  came  late  in  the  classical  age,  and  the  shadows 
had  deepened  since  Homer's  time.  The  torches  on  the 
tombs  were  inverted,  the  imagery  of  immortality  was  faint 
and  dim ;  but  the  natural  world  was  still  naturally  seen,  and, 
if  age  was  coming  down  the  road,  the  brave  man  went 
bravely  forward  to  meet  the  shadow. 

It  was  different  on  Cape  Cod.  Even  Thoreau,  who  had 
escaped  from  the  morasses  of  theology  into  the  woods  and 
accomplished  the  reversion  to  paganism  in  the  shortest 
possible  manner,  never  lost  the  habit  of  moralizing,  which 
is  a  survival  of  the  deep-going  consciousness  of  sin.  De 
scribing  the  operations  of  a  sloop  dragging  for  anchors  and 
chains,  he  gives  his  text  those  neat,  hard  touches  of  fancy 


404  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

which  he  had  at  command  even  in  his  most  uncompromising, 
semi-scientific  moments :  "  To  hunt  to-day  in  pleasant 
weather  for  anchors  which  had  been  lost, — the  sunken  faith 
and  hope  of  mariners,  to  which  they  trusted  in  vain;  now, 
perchance  it  is  the  rusty  one  of  some  old  pirate  ship  or 
Norman  fisherman,  whose  cable  parted  here  two  hun 
dred  years  ago,  and  now  the  best  bower  anchor  of  a 
Canton  or  California  ship  which  has  gone  about  her  busi 
ness." 

And  then  he  drops  into  the  depths  of  the  moral  subcon- 
sciousness  from  which  the  clear,  clean  waters  of  Walden 
Pond  could  not  wash  him :  "  If  the  roadsteads  of  the  spir 
itual  ocean  could  be  thus  dragged,  what  rusty  flukes  of  hope 
deceived  and  parted  chain-cables  of  faith  might  again  be 
windlassed  aboard !  enough  to  sink  the  finder's  craft,  or 
stock  new  navies  to  the  end  of  time.  The  bottom  of  the 
sea  is  strewn  with  anchors,  some  deeper  and  some  shal 
lower,  and  alternately  covered  and  uncovered  by  the  sand, 
perchance  with  a  small  length  of  iron  cable  still  attached, 
to  which  where  is  the  other  end?  .  .  .  So,  if  we  had  diving 
bells  adapted  to  the  spiritual  deeps,  we  should  see  anchors 
with  their  cables  attached,  as  thick  as  eels  in  vinegar, 
all  wriggling  vainly  toward  their  holding  ground.  But 
that  is  not  treasure  for  us  which  another  man  has 
lost;  rather  it  is  for  us  to  seek  what  no  other  man  has 
found  or  can  find."  The  tone  is  light,  almost  trifling, 
when  one  takes  into  account  the  imagery  and  the  idea, 
and  the  subconsciousness  is  wearing  thin;  but  it  is  still 
there. 

Thoreau's  individual  consciousness  was  a  very  faint  re 
flection  of  an  ancestral  consciousness  of  the  presence  of 
sin,  and  of  moral  obligations  of  an  intensity  almost  incon 
ceivable  in  these  degenerate  days.  There  was  a  time  in  a 
Cape  Cod  community  when  corporal  punishment  was  in- 


THEOCRITUS  ON  CAPE  COD  405 

flicted  on  all  residents  who  denied  the  Scriptures,  and  all 
persons  who  stood  outside  the  meeting-house  during  the  time 
of  divine  service  were  set  in  the  stocks.  The  way  of  right 
eousness  was  not  a  straight  and  narrow  path,  but  a  macad 
amized  thoroughfare,  and  woe  to  the  man  who  ventured 
on  a  by-path !  One  is  not  surprised  to  learn  that  "  hysteric 
fits  "  were  very  common,  and  that  congregations  were  often 
thrown  into  the  utmost  confusion;  for  the  preaching  was 
far  from  quieting.  "  Some  think  sinning  ends  with  this 
life,"  said  a  well-known  preacher,  "  but  it  is  a  mistake. 
The  creature  is  held  under  an  everlasting  law ;  the  damned 
increase  in  sin  in  hell.  Possibly,  the  mention  of  this  may 
please  thee.  But,  remember,  there  shall  be  no  pleasant  sins 
there;  no  eating,  drinking,  singing,  dancing;  wanton  dal 
liance,  and  drinking  stolen  waters;  but  damned  sins,  bitter, 
hellish  sins ;  sins  exasperated  by  torments ;  cursing  God, 
spite,  rage,  and  blasphemy.  The  guilt  of  all  thy  sins  shall 
be  laid  upon  thy  soul,  and  be  made  so  many  heaps  of  fuel. 
.  .  .  He  damns  sinners  heaps  upon  heaps." 

It  is  not  surprising  to  learn  that  as  a  result  of  such  preach 
ing  the  hearers  were  several  times  greatly  alarmed,  and 
"  on  one  occasion  a  comparatively  innocent  young  man  was 
frightened  nearly  out  of  his  wits/'  One  wonders  in  what 
precise  sense  the  word  "  comparatively "  was  used ;  it  is 
certain  that  those  who  had  this  sense  of  the  sinfulness 
of  things  driven  into  them  were  too  thoroughly  frightened 
to  see  the  world  with  the  poet's  eye. 

In  Sicily  nobody  was  concerned  for  the  safety  of  his  soul ; 
nobody  was  aware  that  he  had  a  soul  to  be  saved.  Thought 
ful  people  knew  that  certain  things  gave  offense  to  the 
gods ;  that  you  must  not  flaunt  your  prosperity  after  the 
fashion  of  some  American  millionaires,  who  have  discovered 
in  recent  years  that  there  is  a  basis  of  fact  for  the  Greek 
feeling  that  it  is  wise  to  hold  great  possessions  modestly; 


406  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

that  certain  family  and  state  relations  are  sacred,  and  that 
the  fate  of  CEdipus  was  a  warning :  but  nobody  was  making 
observations  of  his  own  frame  of  mind ;  there  were  no  ther 
mometers  to  take  the  spiritual  temperature. 

In  his  representative  capacity  as  poet,  Theocritus,  speak 
ing  for  his  people,  might  have  said  with  Gautier,  "  I  am  a 
man  for  whom  the  visible  world  exists."  It  is  as  impos 
sible  to  cut  the  visible  world  loose  from  the  invisible 
as  to  see  the  solid  stretch  of  earth  without  seeing  the  light 
that  streams  upon  it  and  makes  the  landscape;  but  Gautier 
came  as  near  doing  the  impossible  as  any  man  could,  and  the 
goat-herds  and  pipe-players  of  Theocritus  measurably  ap 
proached  this  instable  position.  On  Cape  Cod,  it  is  true, 
they  looked  "  up  and  not  down/'  but  it  is  also  true  that 
they  "  looked  in  and  not  out  " ;  in  Sicily  they  looked  neither 
up  nor  down,  but  straight  ahead.  The  inevitable  shadows 
fell  across  the  fields  whence  the  distracted  Demeter  sought 
Persephone,  and  Enceladus,  uneasily  bearing  the  weight  of 
^E'tna,  poured  out  the  vials  of  his  wrath  on  thriving  vine 
yards  and  on  almond  orchards  white  as  with  sea- foam;  but 
the  haunting  sense  of  disaster  in  some  other  world  beyond 
the  dip  of  the  sea  was  absent.  If  the  hope  of  living  with 
the  gods  was  faint  and  far,  and  the  forms  of  vanished  heroes 
were  vague  and  dim,  the  fear  of  retribution  beyond  the  gate 
of  death  was  a  mere  blurring  of  the  landscape  by  a  mist 
that  came  and  went. 

The  two  workmen  whose  talk  Theocritus  overhears  and 
reports  in  the  Tenth  Idyll  are  not  discussing  the  welfare  of 
their  souls ;  they  are  not  even  awake  to  the  hard  conditions 
of  labor,  and  take  no  thought  about  shorter  hours  and 
higher  wages  :  they  are  interested  chiefly  in  Bombyca,  "  lean, 
dusk,  a  gypsy," 

".  .  .  twinkling  dice  thy  feet, 
Poppies  thy  lips,  thy  ways  none  knows  how  sweet ! " 


THEOCRITUS  ON  CAPE  COD  407 

And  they  lighten  the  hard  task  of  the  reaper  of  the  stub 
born  corn  in  this  fashion : 

"  O  rich  in  fruit  and  corn-blade :  be  this  field 
Tilled  well,  Demeter,  and  fair  fruitage  yield! 

"  Bind  the  sheaves,  reapers :  lest  one,  passing,  say— 
'  A  fig  for  these,  they're  never  worth  their  pay ! ' 

"Let  the  mown  swathes  look  northward,  ye  who  mow, 
Or  westward — for  the  ears  grow  fattest  so. 

"  Avoid  a  noon-tide  nap,  ye  threshing  men : 
The  chaff  flies  thickest  from  the  corn-ears  then. 

"  Wake  when  the  lark  wakes ;  when  he  slumbers  close 
Your  work,  ye  reapers :  and  at  noontide  doze. 

"  Boys,  the  frogs'  life  for  me !    They  need  not  him 
Who  fills  the  flagon,  for  in  drink  they  swim. 

"  Better  boil  herbs,  thou  toiler  after  gain, 
Than,  splitting  cummin,  split  thy  hand  in  twain." 

In  Sicily  no  reckoning  of  the  waste  of  life  had  been  kept, 
and  armies  and  fleets  had  been  spent  as  freely  in  the  tu 
multuous  centuries  of  conquest  as  if,  in  the  over-abundance 
of  life,  these  losses  need  not  be  entered  in  the  book  of 
account.  Theocritus  distils  this  sense  of  fertility  from  the 
air,  and  the  leaves  of  the  Idylls  are  fairly  astir  with  it.  The 
central  myth  of  the  island  has  a  meaning  quite  beyond  the 
reach  of  accident ;  poetic  as  it  is,  its  symbolism  seems  almost 
scientific.  Under  skies  so  full  of  the. light  which,  in  a  real 
sense,  creates  the  landscape,  encircled  by  a  sea  which  was 
fecund  of  gods  and  goddesses,  Sicily  was  the  teeming  mother 
of  flower-strewn  fields  and  trees  heavy  with  fruit,  trunks 
and  boughs  made  firm  by  winds  as  the  fruit  grew  mellow  in 
the  sun.  Demeter  moved  through  harvest-fields  and  across 
the  grassy  slopes  where  herds  are  fed,  a  smiling  goddess, 

"  Poppies  and  corn-sheaves  on  each  laden  arm." 


408  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

Forgetfulness  of  the  ills  of  life,  dreams  of  Olympian  beauty 
and  tempered  energy  in  the  fields — are  not  these  the  secrets 
of  the  fair  world  which  survives  in  the  Idylls? 

The  corn  and  wine  were  food  for  the  gods  who  gave  them 
as  truly  as  for  the  men  who  plucked  the  ripened  grain  and 
pressed  the  fragrant  grape.  If  there  was  a  sense  of  awe 
in  the  presence  of  the  gods,  there  was  no  sense  of  moral 
separation,  no  yawning  chasm  of  unworthiness.  The  gods 
obeyed  their  impulses  not  less  readily  than  the  men  and 
women  they  had  created ;  both  had  eaten  of  the  fruit  of  the 
tree  of  life,  but  neither  had  eaten  of  the  tree  of  knowledge 
of  good  and  evil.  Anybody  might  happen  upon  Pan  in 
some  deeply  shadowed  place,  and  the  danger  of  surprising 
Diana  at  her  bath  was  not  wholly  imaginary.  Religion  was 
largely  the  sense  of  being  neighbor  to  the  gods ;  they  were 
more  prosperous  than  men  and  had  more  power,  but  they 
were  different  only  in  degree,  and  one  might  be  on  easy 
terms  with  them.  They  were  created  by  the  poetic  mind, 
and  they  repaid  it  a  thousand-fold  with  the  consciousness 
of  a  world  haunted  by  near,  familiar,  and  radiant  divinity. 
The  heresy  which  shattered  the  unity  of  life  by  dividing 
it  between  the  religious  and  the  secular  had  not  come  to 
confuse  the  souls  of  the  good  and  put  a  full  half  of  life 
in  the  hands  of  sinners ;  religion  was  as  natural  as  sunlight 
and  as  easy  as  breathing. 

There  was  little  philosophy  and  less  science  in  Sicily  as 
Theocritus  reports  it.  The  devastating  passion  for  knowl 
edge  had  not  brought  self-consciousness  in  like  a  tide,  nor 
had  the  desire  to  know  about  things  taken  the  place  of 
knowledge  of  the  things  themselves.  The  beauty  of  the 
world  was  a  matter  of  experience,  not  of  formal  observa 
tion,  and  was  seen  directly  as  artists  see  a  landscape  before 
they  bring  technical  skill  to  reproduce  it.  So  far  as  the 
men  and  women  who  work  and  sing  and  make  love  in  the 


THEOCRITUS  ON  CAPE  COD  409 

Idylls  were  concerned,  the  age  was  delightfully  unintel- 
lectual  and,  therefore,  normally  poetic.  The  vocabulary 
of  names  for  things  was  made  up  of  descriptive  rather  than 
analytical  words,  and  things  were  seen  in  wholes  rather 
than  in  parts. 

From  this  point  of  view  religion  was  as  universal  and 
all-enfolding  as  air,  and  the  gods  were  as  concrete  and 
tangible  as  trees  and  rocks  and  stars.  They  were  compan 
ionable  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  and  if  one 
wished  to  represent  them,  he  used  symbols  and  images  of 
divinely  fashioned  men  and  women,  not  philosophical  ideas 
or  scientific  formulas.  In  this  respect  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  has  been  both  a  wise  teacher  and  a  tender  guardian 
of  lonely  and  sorrowful  humanity.  Homer  was  not  a  formal 
theologian,  but  the  harvest  of  the  seed  of  thought  he  sowed 
is  not  even  now  fully  gathered.  He  peopled  the  whole  world 
of  imagination.  Christianity  is  not  only  concrete  but  his 
toric,  and  some  day,  when  the  way  of  abstraction  has  been 
abandoned  for  that  way  of  vital  knowledge,  which  is  the 
path  of  the  prophets,  the  saints,  and  the  artists,  it  will 
again  set  the  imagination  aflame.  Meantime  Theocritus 
is  a  charming  companion  for  those  who  hunger  and  thirst 
for  beauty,  and  who  long  from  time  to  time  to  hang  up 
the  trumpet  of  the  reformer,  and  give  themselves  up  to 
the  song  of  the  sea  and  the  simple  music  of  the  shep 
herd's  pipe. 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  * 
HENRY  CABOT  LODGE 

NOTHING  is  more  interesting  than  to  trace,  through  many 
years  and  almost  endless  wanderings  and  changes,  the  for 
tunes  of  an  idea  or  habit  of  thought.  The  subject  is  a 
much-neglected  one,  even  in  these  days  of  sweeping  and 
minute  investigation,  because  the  inherent  difficulties  are 
so  great,  and  the  necessary  data  so  multifarious,  confused, 
and  sometimes  contradictory,  that  absolute  proof  and  smooth 
presentation  seem  well-nigh  impossible.  Yet  the  ideas,  the 
opinions,  even  the  prejudices  of  men,  impalpable  and  in 
definite  as  they  are,  have  at  times  a  wonderful  vitality  and 
force  and  are  not  without  meaning  and  importance  when 
looked  at  with  considerate  eyes.  The  conditions  under 
which  they  have  been  developed  may  change,  or  pass  utterly 

*  This  essay  appeared  originally  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for 
May.  1883.  During  the  thirty  years  which  have  elapsed  since  it  was 
written  the  manifestations  of  the  colonial  spirit  then  apparent  in  the 
United  States  have  not  only  altered  in  character  but,  I  am  glad  to 
say,  have  weakened,  diminished,  and  become  less  noticeable.  Since 
1883,  also,  there  has  been  much  achieved  by  Americans  in  Art  and 
Literature,  in  painting,  in  sculpture,  in  music,  and  particularly  in 
architecture.  Success  in  all  these  fields  has,  with  few  exceptions, 
been  won  by  men  working  in  the  spirit  which  is  not  colonial,  but 
which  it  was  the  purpose  of  this  essay  to  inculcate  as  the  true  one 
to  which  alone  we  could  look  for  fine  and  enduring  achievement. 
I  have  called  attention  to  the  date  at  which  the  essay  was  written 
in  order  that  those  who  read  it  may  remember  that  it  applies  in 
certain  points  to  the  conditions  of  thirty  years  ago  and  not  to  those 
of  the  present  day. 

410 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  411 

away,  while  they,  mere  shadowy  creations  of  the  mind,  will 
endure  for  generations.  Long  after  the  world  to  which  it 
belonged  has  vanished,  a  habit  of  thought  will  live  on,  in 
delibly  imprinted  upon  a  race  or  nation,  like  the  footprint 
of  some  extinct  beast  or  bird  upon  a  piece  of  stone.  The 
solemn  bigotry  of  the  Spaniard  is  the  fossil  trace  of  the  fierce 
struggle  of  eight  hundred  years  with  the  Moors.  The  theory 
of  the  Lord's  day  peculiar  to  the  English  face  all  over  the 
world  is  the  deeply  branded  sign  of  the  brief  reign  of  Puri 
tanism.  A  certain  fashion  of  thought  prevailed  half  a 
century  ago;  another  is  popular  to-day.  There  is  a  resem 
blance  between  the  two,  the  existence  of  both  is  recognized, 
and  both,  without  much  consideration,  are  set  down  as 
sporadic  and  independent,  which  is  by  no  means  a  safe 
conclusion.  We  have  all  heard  of  those  rivers  which  are 
suddenly  lost  to  sight  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and, 
coming  as  suddenly  again  to  the  surface,  flow  onward  to 
the  sea  as  before.  Or  the  wandering  stream  may  turn  aside 
into  fresh  fields,  and,  with  new  shapes  and  colors,  seem 
to  have  no  connection  with  the  waters  of  its  source  or  with 
those  which  finally  mingle  with  the  ocean.  Yet,  despite 
the  disappearances  and  the  changes,  it  is  always  the  same 
river.  It  is  exactly  so  with  some  kinds  of  ideas  and  modes 
of  thought, — those  that  are  wholly  distinct  from  the  count 
less  host  of  opinions  which  perish  utterly,  and  are  forgotten 
in  a  few  years,  or  which  are  still  oftener  the  creatures  of 
a  day,  or  an  hour,  and  die  by  myriads,  like  the  short-lived 
insects  whose  course  is  run  between  sunrise  and  sunset. 

The  purpose  of  this  essay  is  to  discuss  briefly  certain 
opinions  which  belong  to  the  more  enduring  class.  They 
are  sufficiently  well  known.  When  they  are  mentioned 
everyone  will  recognize  them,  and  will  admit  their  existence 
at  the  particular  period  to  which  they  belong.  The  point 
which  is  overlooked  is  their  connection  and  relationship. 


412  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

They  all  have  the  same  pedigree,  a  marked  resemblance  to 
each  other,  and  they  derive  their  descent  from  a  common 
ancestor.  My  intention  is  merely  to  trace  the  pedigree  and 
narrate  the  history  of  this  numerous  and  interesting  family 
of  ideas  and  habits  of  thought.  I  have  entitled  them  col 
lectively  "  Colonialism  in  the  United  States,"  a  description 
which  is  perhaps  more  comprehensive  than  satisfactory  or 
exact. 

In  the  year  of  grace  1776,  we  published  to  the  world 
our  Declaration  of  Independence.  Six  years  later,  Eng 
land  assented  to  the  separation.  These  are  tolerably  familiar 
facts.  That  we  have  been  striving  ever  since  to  make  that 
independence  real  and  complete,  and  that  the  work  is  not 
yet  entirely  finished,  are  not,  perhaps,  equally  obvious  tru 
isms.  The  hard  fighting  by  which  we  severed  our  connection 
with  the  mother-country  was  in  many  ways  the  least  difficult 
part  of  the  work  of  building  up  a  great  and  independent 
nation.  The  decision  of  the  sword  may  be  rude,  but  it  is 
pretty  sure  to  be  speedy.  Armed  revolution  is  quick.  A 
South  American,  in  the  exercise  of  his  constitutional  privi 
leges,  will  rush  into  the  street  and  declare  a  revolution  in 
five  minutes.  A  Frenchman  will  pull  down  one  government 
to-day,  and  set  up  another  to-morrow,  besides  giving  new 
names  to  all  the  principal  streets  of  Paris  during  the  inter 
vening  night.  We  English-speaking  people  do  not  move 
quite  so  fast.  We  come  more  slowly  to  the  boiling  point ; 
we  are  not  fond  of  violent  changes,  and  when  we  make 
them  we  consume  a  considerable  time  in  the  operation.  Still, 
at  the  best,  a  revolution  by  force  of  arms  is  an  affair  of  a 
few  years.  We  broke  with  England  in  1776,  we  had  won 
our  victory  in  1782,  and  by  the  year  1789  we  had  a  new 
national  government  fairly  started. 

But  if  we  are  slower  than  other  people  in  the  conduct 
of  revolutions,  owing  largely  to  our  love  of  dogged  fight- 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  413 

ing  and  inability  to  recognize  defeat,  we  are  infinitely  more 
deliberate  than  our  neighbors  in  altering,  or  even  modifying, 
our  ideas  and  modes  of  thought.  The  slow  mind'  and 
ingrained  conservatism  of  the  English  race  are  the  chief 
causes  of  their  marvelous  political  and  material  success. 
After  much  obstinate  fighting  in  the  field,  they  have  carried 
through  the  few  revolutions  which  they  have  seen  fit  to 
engage  in;  but  when  they  have  undertaken  to  extend  these 
revolutions  to  the  domain  of  thought,  there  has  arisen  a 
spirit  of  stubborn  and  elusive  resistance,  which  has  seemed 
to  set  every  effort,  and  even  time  itself,  at  defiance. 

By  the  treaty  of  Paris  our  independence  was  acknowl 
edged,  and  in  name  and  theory  was  complete.  We  then 
entered  upon  the  second  stage  in  the  conflict,  that  of  ideas 
and  opinions.  True  to  our  race  and  to  our  instincts,  and 
with  a  wisdom  which  is  one  of  the  glories  of  our  history, 
we  carefully  preserved  the  principles  and  forms  of  gov 
ernment  and  law,  which  traced  an  unbroken  descent  and 
growth  from  the  days  of  the  Saxon  invasion.  But  while 
we  kept  so  much  that  was  of  inestimable  worth,  we  also 
retained,  inevitably,  of  course,  something' which  it  would 
have  been  well  for  us  to  have  shaken  off  together  with  the 
rule  of  George  III.  and  the  British  Parliament.  This  was 
the  colonial  spirit  in  our  modes  of  thought. 

The  word  "  colonial ''  is  preferable  to  the  more  obvious 
word  "  provincial,"  because  the  former  is  absolute,  while 
the  latter,  by  usage,  has  become  in  a  great  measure  relative. 
We  are  very  apt  to  call  an  opinion,  a  custom,  or  a  neigh 
bor  "  provincial/'  because  we  do  not  like  the  person  or  thing 
in  question ;  and  in  this  way  the  true  value  of  the  word  has 
of  late  been  frittered  away.  "  Colonialism,"  moreover,  has 
in  this  connection  historical  point  and  value,  while  "  provin 
cialism  "  is  general  and  meaningless.  Colonialism  is  also 
susceptible  of  accurate  definition.  A  colony  is  an  off-shoot 


414  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

from  a  parent  stock,  and  its  chief  characteristic  is  depend 
ence.  In  exact  proportion  as  dependence  lessens,  the  colony 
changes  its  nature  and  advances  toward  national  existence. 
For  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  we  were  English  colonies. 
Just  before  the  revolution,  in  everything  but  the  affairs  of 
practical  government,  the  precise  point  at  which  the  break 
came,  we  were  still  colonies  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  term. 
Except  in  matters  of  food  and  drink,  and  of  the  wealth 
which  we  won  from  the  soil  and  the  ocean,  we  were  in  a 
state  of  complete  material  and  intellectual  dependence. 
Every  luxury,  and  almost  every  manufactured  article,  came 
to  us  across  the  water.  Our  politics,  except  those  which 
were  purely  local,  were  the  politics  of  England,  and  so  also 
were  our  foreign  relations.  Our  books,  our  art,  our  authors, 
our  commerce,  were  all  English ;  and  this  was  true  of  our 
colleges,  our  professions,  our  learning,  our  fashions,  and  our 
manners.  There  is  no  need  here  to  go  into  the  details  which 
show  the  absolute  supremacy  of  the  colonial  spirit  and  our 
entire  intellectual  dependence.  When  we  sought  to  origi 
nate,  we  simply  imitated.  The  conditions  of  our  life  could 
not  be  overcome. 

The  universal  prevalence  of  the  colonial  spirit  at  that 
period  is  shown  most  strongly  by  one  great  exception,  just 
as  the  flash  of  lightning  makes  us  realize  the  intense  dark 
ness  of  a  thunder-storm  at  night.  In  the  midst  of  the 
provincial  and  barren  waste  of  our  intellectual  existence 
in  the  eighteenth  century  there  stands  out  in  sharp  relief 
the  luminous  genius  of  Franklin.  It  is  true  that  Franklin 
was  cosmopolitan  in  thought,  that  his  name  and  fame  and 
achievements  in  science  and  literature  belonged  to  man- 
kind;  but  he  was  all  this  because  he  was  genuinely  and 
intensely  American.  His  audacity,  his  fertility,  his  adapta 
bility,  are  all  characteristic  of  America,  and  not  of  an  Eng 
lish  colony.  He  moved  with  an  easy  and  assured  step, 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  415 

with  a  poise  and  balance  which  nothing,  could  shake,  among 
the  great  men  of  the  world ;  he  stood  before  kings  and 
princes  and  courtiers,  unmoved  and  unawed.  He  was 
strongly  averse  to  breaking  with  England;  but  when  the 
war  came  he  was  the  one  man  who  could  go  forth  and  repre 
sent  to  Europe  the  new  nationality  without  a  touch  of  the 
colonist  about  him.  He  met  them  all,  great  ministers  and 
great  sovereigns,  on  a  common  ground,  as  if  the  colonies 
of  yesterday  had  been  an  independent  nation  for  genera 
tions.  His  autobiography  is  the  corner-stone,  the  first  great 
work  of  American  literature.  The  plain,  direct  style,  al 
most  worthy  of  Swift,  the  homely,  forcible  language,  the 
humor,  the  observation,  the  knowledge  of  men,  the  worldly 
philosophy  of  that  remarkable  book,  are  familiar  to  all ; 
but  its  best  and,  considering  its  date,  its  most  extraordinary 
quality  is  its  perfect  originality.  It  is  American  in  feeling, 
without  any  taint  of  English  colonialism.  Look  at  Franklin 
in  the  midst  of  that  excellent  Pennsylvania  community; 
compare  him  and  his  genius  with  his  surroundings,  and  you 
get  a  better  idea  of  what  the  colonial  spirit  was  in  America 
in  those  days,  and  how  thoroughly  men  were  saturated  with 
it,  than  in  any  other  way. 

In  general  terms  it  may  be  said  that,  outside  of  politics 
and  the  still  latent  democratic  tendencies,  the  entire  intel 
lectual  life  of  the  colonists  was  drawn  from  England,  and 
that  to  the  mother  country  they  looked  for  everything  per 
taining  to  the  domain  of  thought.  The  colonists  in  the 
eighteenth  century  had,  in  a  word,  a  thoroughly  and  deeply 
rooted  habit  of  mental  dependence.  The  manner  in  which 
we  have  gradually  shaken  off  this  dependence,  retaining 
of  the  past  only  that  which  is  good,  constitutes  the  history 
of  the  decline  of  the  colonial  spirit  in  the  United  .States. 
As  this  spirit  existed  everywhere  at  the  outset,  and  brooded 
over  the  whole  realm  of  intellect,  we  can  in  most  cases  trace 


416  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

its  history  best  in  the  recurring  and  successful  revolts  against 
it,  which,  breaking  out  now  here,  now  there,  have  at  last 
brought  it  so  near  to  final  extinction. 

In  1789,  after  the  seven  years  of  disorder  and  demorali 
zation  which  followed  the  close  of  the  war,  the  United 
States  government  was  established.  Every  visible  political 
tie  which  bound  us  to  England  had  been  severed,  and  we 
were  apparently  entirely  independent.  But  the  shackles  of 
the  colonial  spirit,  which  had  been  forging  and  welding  for 
a  century  and  a  half,  were  still  heavy  upon  us,  and  fettered 
all  our  mental  action.  The  work  of  making  our  independ 
ence  real  and  genuine  was  but  half  done,  and  the  first 
struggle  of  the  new  national  spirit  with  that  of  the  colonial 
past  was  in  the  field  of  politics,  and  consumed  twenty-five 
years  before  victory  was  finally  obtained.  We  still  felt  that 
our  fortunes  were  inextricably  interwoven  with  those  of 
Europe.  We  could  not  realize  that  what  affected  us  nearly 
when  we  were  a  part  of  the  British  Empire  no  longer 
touched  us  as  an  independent  nation.  We  can  best  under 
stand  how  strong  this  feeling  was  by  the  effect  which  was 
produced  here  by  the  French  revolution.  That  tremendous 
convulsion,  it  may  be  said,  was  necessarily  felt  everywhere ; 
but  one  much  greater  might  take  place  in  Europe  to-day 
without  producing  here  anything  at  all  resembling  the  ex 
citement  of  1790.  We  had  already  achieved  far  more  than 
the  French  revolution  ever  accomplished.  We  had  gone 
much  farther  on  the  democratic  road  than  any  other  nation. 
Yet  worthy  men  in  the  United  States  put  on  cockades  and 
liberty  caps,  erected  trees  of  liberty,  called  each  other  "  Citi 
zen  Brown "  and  "  Citizen  Smith/'  drank  confusion  to 
tyrants,  and  sang  the  wild  songs  of  Paris.  All  this  was  done 
in  a  country  where  every  privilege  and  artificial  distinction 
had  been  swept  away,  and  where  the  government  was  the 
creation  of  the  people  themselves.  These  ravings  and  sym- 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  417 

bols  had  a  terrific  reality  in  Paris  and  in  Europe,  and  so, 
like  colonists,  we  felt  that  they  must  have  a  meaning  to  us, 
and  that  the  fate  and  fortunes  of  our  ally  were  our  fate 
and  fortunes.  A  part  of  the  people  engaged  in  an  imitation 
that  became  here  the  shallowest  nonsense,  while  the  other 
portion  of  the  community,  which  was  hostile  to  French  ideas, 
took  up  and  propaga'ted  the  notion  that  the  welfare  of 
civilized  society  lay  with  England  and  with  English  opinions. 
Thus  we  had  two  great  parties  in  the  United  States,  working 
themselves  up  to  white  heat  over  the  politics  of  England 
and  France.  The  first  heavy  blow  to  the  influence  of  foreign 
politics  was  Washington's  proclamation  of  neutrality.  It 
seems  a  very  simple  and  obvious  thing  now,  this  policy 
of  non-interference  in  the  affairs  of  Europe  which  that 
proclamation  inaugurated,  and  yet  at  the  time  men  marveled 
at  the  step,  and  thought  it  very  strange.  Parties  divided 
over  it.  People  could  not  conceive  how  we  could  keep  clear 
of  the  great  stream  of  European  events.  One  side  disliked 
the  proclamation  as  hostile  to  France,  while  the  other. ap 
proved  it  for  the  same  reason.  Even  the  Secretary  of  State, 
Thomas  Jefferson,  one  of  the  most  representative  men  of 
American  democracy,  resisted  the  neutrality  policy  in  the 
genuine  spirit  of  the  colonist.  Yet  Washington's  proclama 
tion  was  simply  the  sequel  to  the  Declaration  of  Independ 
ence.  It  merely  amounted  to  saying:  We  have  created  a 
new  nation,  and  England  not  only  cannot  govern  us,  but 
English  and  European  politics  are  none  of  our  business,  and 
we  propose  to  be  independent  of  them  and  not  meddle  in 
them.  The  neutrality  policy  of  Washington's  administration 
was  a  great  advance  toward  independence  and  a  severe  blow 
to  colonialism  in  politics.  Washington  himself  exerted  a 
powerful  influence  against  the  colonial  spirit.  The  principle 
of  nationality,  then  just  entering  upon  its  long  struggle  with 
state's  rights,  was  in  its  very  nature  hostile  to  everything 


418  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

colonial ;  and  Washington,  despite  his  Virginian  traditions, 
was  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  national  spirit.  He  believed 
himself,  and  insensibly  impressed  his  belief  upon  the  peo 
ple,  that  true  nationality  could  only  be  obtained  by  keeping 
ourselves  aloof  from  the  conflicts  and  the  politics  of  the 
Old  World.  Then,  too,  his  splendid  personal  dignity,  which 
still  holds  us  silent  and  respectful  after  the  lapse  of  a  hun 
dred  years,  communicated  itself  to  his  office,  and  thence  to 
the  nation  of  which  he  was  the  representative.  The  colonial 
spirit  withered  away  in  the  presence  of  Washington. 

The  only  thorough-going  nationalist  among  the  leaders  of 
that  time  was  Alexander  Hamilton.  He  was  not  born  in 
the  States,  and  was  therefore  free  from  all  local  influences ; 
and  he  was  by  nature  imperious  in  temper  and  imperial  in 
his  views.  The  guiding  principle  of  that  great  man's  public 
career  was  the  advancement  of  American  nationality.  He 
was  called  "  British  "  Hamilton  by  the  very  men  who  wished 
to  throw  us  into  the  arms  of  the  French  republic,  because 
he  was  wedded  to  the  principles  and  the  forms  of  consti 
tutional  English  government  and  sought  to  preserve  them 
here  adapted  to  new  conditions.  He  desired  to  put  our 
political  inheritance  to  its  proper  use,  but  this  was  as  far 
removed  from  the  colonial  spirit  as  possible.  Instead  of 
being  "  British,"  Hamilton's  intense  eagerness  for  a  strong 
national  government  made  him  the  deadliest  foe  of  the 
colonial  spirit,  which  he  did  more  to  strangle  and  crush  out 
than  any  other  man  of  his  time.  The  objects  at  which  he 
aimed  were  continental  supremacy,  and  complete  independ 
ence  in  business,  politics,  and  industry.  In  all  these  depart 
ments  he  saw  the  belittling  effects  of  dependence,  and  so  he 
assailed  it  by  his  reports  and  by  his  whole  policy,  foreign 
and  domestic.  So  much  of  his  work  as  he  carried  through 
had  a  far-reaching  effect,  and  did  a  great  deal  to  weaken 
the  colonial  spirit.  But  the  strength  of  that  spirit  was  best 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  419 

shown  in  the  hostility  or  indifference  which  was  displayed 
toward  his  projects.  The  great  cause  of  opposition  to  Ham 
ilton's  financial  policy  proceeded,  undoubtedly,  from  state 
jealousy  of  the  central  government ;  but  the  resistance  to 
his  foreign  policy  arose  from  the  colonial  ignorance  which 
could  not  understand  the  real  purpose  of  neutrality,  and 
which  thought  that  Hamilton  was  simply  and  stupidly  en 
deavoring  to  force  us  toward  England  as  against  France. 

Washington,  Hamilton,  and  John  Adams,  notwithstanding 
his  New  England  prejudices,  all  did  much  while  they  were 
in  power,  as  the  heads  of  the  Federalist  party,  to  cherish 
and  increase  national  self-respect,  and  thereby  eradicate 
colonialism  from  our  politics.  The  lull  in  Europe,  after 
the  fall  of  the  Federalists,  led  to  a  truce  in  the  contests  over 
foreign  affairs  in  the  United  States,  but  with  the  renewal 
of  war  the  old  conflict  broke  out.  The  years  from  1806 
to  1812  are  among  the  least  creditable  in  our  history.  The 
Federalists  ceased  to  be  a  national  party  and  the  fierce  reac 
tion  against  the  French  revolution  drove  them  into  an  un 
reasoning  admiration  of  England.  They  looked  to  England 
for  the  salvation  of  civilized  society.  Their  chief  interest 
centered  in  English  politics,  and  the  resources  of  England 
formed  the  subject  of  their  thoughts  and  studies,  and  fur 
nished  the  theme  of  conversation  at  their  dinner  tables.  It 
was  just  as  bad  on  the  other  side.  The  Republicans  still 
clung  to  their  affection  for  France,  notwithstanding  the 
despotism  of  the  empire.  They  regarded  Napoleon  with 
reverential  awe,  and  shivered  at  the  idea  of  plunging  into 
hostilities  with  anyone.  The  foreign  policy  of  Jefferson 
was  that  of  a  thorough  colonist.  He  shrank  with  horror 
from  war.  He  would  have  had  us  confine  ourselves  to  agri 
culture,  and  to  our  flocks  and  herds,  because  our  commerce, 
the  commerce  of  a  nation,  was  something  with  which  other 
powers  were  likely  to  interfere.  He  wished  us  to  exist  in 


420  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

a  state  of  complete  commercial  and  industrial  dependence, 
and  allow  England  to  carry  for  us  and  manufacture  for  us, 
as  she  did  when  we  were  colonies  weighed  down  by  the 
clauses  of  the  navigation  acts.  His  plans  of  resistance  did 
not  extend  beyond  the  old  colonial  scheme  of  non-importa 
tion  and  non-intercourse  agreements.  Read  the  bitter 
debates  in  Congress  of  those  years,  and  you  find  them  filled 
with  nothing  but  the  politics  of  other  nations.  All  the  talk 
is  saturated  with  colonial  feeling.  Even  the  names  of  op 
probrium  which  the  hostile  parties  applied  to  each  other 
were  borrowed.  The  Republicans  called  the  Federalists 
"  Tories  "  and  a  "  British  faction,"  while  the  Federalists 
retorted  by  stigmatizing  their  opponents  as  Jacobins.  Dur 
ing  these  sorry  years,  however,  the  last  in  which  our  poli 
tics  bore  the  colonial  character,  a  new  party  was  growing 
up,  which  may  be  called  the  national  party,  not  as  distin 
guished  from  the  party  of  state's  rights,  but  as  the  opposition 
to  colonial  ideas.  This  new  movement  was  headed  and 
rendered  illustrious  by  such  men  as  Henry  Clay,  John 
Quincy  Adams,  the  brilliant  group  from  South  Carolina,  com 
prising  Calhoun,  Langdon  Cheves,  and  William  Lowndes, 
and  at  a  later  period  by  Daniel  Webster.  Clay  and 
the  South  Carolinians  were  the  first  to  push  forward  the 
resistance  to  colonialism.  Their  policy  was  crude  and  ill- 
defined.  They  struck  out  blindly  against  the  evil  influence 
which,  as  they  felt,  was  choking  the  current  of  national  life, 
for  they  were  convinced  that,  to  be  truly  independent,  the 
United  States  must  fight  somebody.  Who  that  somebody 
should  be  was  a  secondary  question.  Of  all  the  nations 
which  had  been  kicking  and  cuffing  us,  England  was,  on 
the  whole,  the  most  arrogant,  and  offensive ;  and  so  the 
young  nationalists  dragged  the  country  into  the  war  of  1812. 
We  were  wonderfully  successful  at  sea  and  at  New  Orleans, 
but  in  other  respects  this  war  was  neither  very  prosperous 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  421 

nor  very  creditable,  and  the  treaty  of  Ghent  was  absolutely 
silent  as  to  the  objects  for  which  we  had  expressly  declared 
war.  Nevertheless,  the  real  purpose  of  the  war  was  gained, 
despite  the  silent  and  almost  meaningless  treaty  which  con 
cluded  it.  We  had  proved  to  the  world  and  to  ourselves 
that  we  existed  as  a  nation.  We  had  demonstrated  the  fact 
that  we  had  ceased  to  be  colonies.  We  had  torn  up  colonial 
ism  in  our  public  affairs  by  the  roots,  and  we  had  crushed 
out  the  colonial  spirit  in  our  politics.  After  the  war  of  1812 
our  politics  might  be  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  but  they  were 
our  own  politics,  and  not  those  of  Europe.  The  wretched 
colonial  spirit  which  had  belittled  and  warped  them  for 
twenty-five  years  had  perished  utterly,  and  with  the  treaty 
of  Ghent  it  was  buried  so  deeply  that  not  even  its  ghost  has 
since  then  crossed  our  political  pathway. 

Besides  being  the  field  where  the  first  battle  with  the 
colonial  spirit  was  fought  out,  politics  then  offered  almost 
the  only  intellectual  interest  of  the  country,  outside  of  com 
merce,  which  was  still  largely  dependent  in  character,  and 
very  different  in  its  scope  from  the  great  mercantile  com 
binations  of  to-day.  Religious  controversy  was  of  the  past, 
and  except  in  New  England,  where  the  liberal  revolt  against 
Calvinism  was  in  progress,  there  was  no  great  interest  in 
theological  questions.  When  the  Constitution  went  into 
operation  the  professions  of  law  and  medicine  were  in  their 
infancy.  There  was  no  literature,  no  art,  no  science,  none 
of  the  multifarious  interests  which  now  divide  and  absorb 
the  intellectual  energies  of  the  community.  In  the  quarter 
of  a  century  which  closed  with  the  treaty  of  Ghent  we  can 
trace  the  development  of  the  legal  and  medical  professions, 
and  their  advance  towards  independence  and  originality. 
But  in  the  literary  efforts  of  the  time  we  see  the  colonial 
spirit  displayed  more  strongly  than  anywhere  else,  and  in 
apparently  undiminished  vigor. 


422  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

Our  first  literature  was  political,  and  sprang  from  the 
discussions  incident  to  the  adoption  of  the  Constitution.  It 
was,  however,  devoted  to  our  own  affairs,  and  aimed  at 
the  foundation  of  a  nation,  and  was  therefore  fresh,  vigor 
ous,  often  learned,  and  thoroughly  American  in  tone.  Its 
masterpiece  was  the  Federalist,  which  marks  an  era  in  the 
history  of  constitutional  discussion,  and  which  was  the 
conception  of  the  thoroughly  national  mind  of  Hamilton. 
After  the  new  government  was  established,  our  political 
writings,  like  our  politics,  drifted  back  to  provincialism 
of  thought,  and  were  absorbed  in  the  affairs  of  Europe ;  but 
the  first  advance  on  the  road  to  literary  independence  was 
made  by  the  early  literature  of  the  Constitution. 

It  is  to  this  period  also,  which  covers  the  years  from 
1789  to  1815,  that  Washington  Irving,  the  first  of  our  great 
writers,  belongs.  This  is  not  the  place  to  enter  into  an 
analysis  of  Irving's  genius,  but  it  may  be  fairly  said  that 
while  in  feeling  he  was  a  thorough  American,  in  literature 
he  was  a  cosmopolitan.  His  easy  style,  the  tinge  of  romance, 
and  the  mingling  of  the  story-teller  and  the  antiquarian 
remind  us  of  his  great  contemporary,  Walter  Scott.  In  his 
quiet  humor  and  gentle  satire,  we  taste  the  flavor  of  Addi- 
son.  In  the  charming  legends  with  which  he  has  consecrated 
the  beauties  of  the  Hudson  River  valley,  and  thrown  over 
that  beautiful  region  the  warm  light  of  his  imagination,  we 
find  the  genuine  love  of  country  and  of  home.  In  like 
manner  we  perceive  his  historical  taste  and  his  patriotism 
in  the  last  work  of  his  life,  the  biography  of  his  great  name 
sake.  But  he  wrought  as  well  with  the  romance  of  Spain 
and  of  England.  He  was  too  great  to  be  colonial;  he  did 
not  find  enough  food  for  his  imagination  in  the  America  of 
that  day  to  be  thoroughly  American.  He  stands  apart, 
a  notable  gift  from  America  to  English  literature,  but  not 
a  type  of  American  literature  itself.  He  had  imitators  and 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  423 

friends,  whom  it  has  been  the  fashion  to  call  a  school,  but 
he  founded  no  school,  and  died  as  he  had  lived,  alone.  He 
broke  through  the  narrow  trammels  of  colonialism  himself, 
but  the  colonial  spirit  hung  just  as  heavily  upon  the  feeble 
literature  about  him.  In  those  years  also  came  the  first 
poem  of  William  Cullen  Bryant,  the  first  American  poem 
with  the  quality  of  life  and  which  was  native  and  not  of 
imported  origin. 

In  that  same  period  too  there  flourished  another  literary 
man,  who  was  far  removed  in  every  way  from  the  brilliant 
editor  of  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  but  who  illustrated  by  his 
struggle  with  colonialism  the  strength  of  that  influence  far 
better  than  Irving,  who  soared  so  easily  above  it.  Noah 
Webster,  poor,  sturdy,  independent,  with  a  rude  but  sur 
prising  knowledge  of  philology,  revolted  in  every  nerve 
and  fiber  of  his  being  against  the  enervating  influence  of 
the  colonial  past.  The  spirit  of  nationality  had  entered  into 
his  soul.  He  felt  that  the  nation  which  he  saw  growing 
up  about  him  was  too  great  to  take  its  orthography  or  its 
pronunciation  blindly  and  obediently  from  the  mother  land. 
It  was  a  new  country  and  a  new  nation,  and  Webster  de 
termined  that  so  far  as  in  him  lay  it  should  have  linguistic 
independence.  It  was  an  odd  idea,  but  it  came  from  his 
heart,  and  his  national  feeling  found  natural  expression  in 
the  study  of  language,  to  which  he  devoted  his  life.  He 
went  into  open  rebellion  against  British  tradition.  He  was 
snubbed,  laughed  at,  and  abused.  He  was  regarded  as  little 
better  than  a  madman  to  dare  to  set  himself  up  against 
Johnson  and  his  successors.  But  the  hard-headed  New 
Englander  pressed  on,  and  finally  brought  out  his  dictionary, 
— a  great  work,  which  has  fitly  preserved  his  name.  His 
knowledge  was  crude,  his  general  theory  mistaken ;  his 
system  of  changes  has  not  stood  the  test  of  time,  and  was 
in  itself  contradictory;  but  the  stubborn  battle  which  he 


424  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

fought  for  literary  independence  and  the  hard  blows  he 
struck  should  never  be  forgotten,  while  the  odds  against 
which  he  contended  and  the  opposition  he  aroused  are 
admirable  illustrations  of  the  overpowering  influence  of  the 
colonial  spirit  in  our  early  literature. 

What  the  state  of  our  literature  was,  what  the  feelings 
of  our  few  literary  men  apart  from  these  few  exceptions, 
and  what  the  spirit  with  which  Webster  did  battle,  all  come 
out  in  a  few  lines  written  by  an  English  poet.  We  can  see 
everything  as  by  a  sudden  flash  of  light,  and  we  do  not 
need  to  look  farther  to  understand  the  condition  of  Ameri 
can  literature  in  the  early  years  of  the  century.  In  the 
waste  of  barbarism  called  the  United  States,  the  only  oasis 
discovered  by  the  delicate  sensibilities  of  Mr.  Thomas  Moore 
was  in  the  society  of  Mr.  Joseph  Dennie,  a  clever  editor 
and  essayist,  and  his  little  circle  of  friends  in  Philadelphia. 
The  lines  commonly  quoted  in  this  connection  are  those  in 
the  epistle  to  Spencer,  beginning, — 

"  Yet,  yet,  forgive  me,  O  ye  sacred  few, 
Whom  late  by  Delaware's  green  banks  I  knew;" 

which  describe  the  poet's  feelings  toward  America,  and  his 
delight  in  the  society  of  Mr.  Dennie  and  his  friends.  But 
the  feelings  and  opinions  of  Moore  are  of  no  moment.  The 
really  important  passage  describes  not  the  author,  but  what 
Dennie  and  his  companions  said  and  thought,  and  has  in 
this  way  historical  if  not  poetic  value.  The  lines  occur 
among  those  addressed  to  the  "  Boston  frigate  "  when  the 
author  was  leaving  Halifax: — 

"  Farewell  to  the  few  I  have  left  with  regret ; 
May  they  sometimes  recall,  what  I  cannot  forget, 
The  delight  of  those  evenings, — too  brief  a  delight, 
When  in  converse  and  song  we  have  stol'n  on  the  night ; 
When  they've  asked  me  the  manners,  the  mind,  or  the  mien, 
Of  some  bard  I  had  known  or  some  chief  I  had  seen, 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  425 

Whose  glory,  though  distant,  they  long  had  adored, 
Whose  name  had  oft  hallowed  the  wine-cup  they  poured. 
And  still,  as   with   sympathy  humble  but  true 
I  have  told  of  each  bright  son  of  fame  all  I  knew, 
They  have  listened,  and  sighed  that  the  powerful  stream 
Of  America's  empire  should  pass  like  a  dream, 
Without  leaving  one  relic  of  genius,  to  say 
How  sublime  was  the  tide  which  had  vanished  away ! " 

The  evils  apprehended  by  these  excellent  gentlemen  are 
much  more  strongly  set  forth  in  the  previous  epistle,  but 
here  we  catch  sight  of  the  men  themselves.  There  they 
sit  adoring  Englishmen,  and  eagerly  inquiring  about  them 
of  the  gracious  Mr.  Moore,  while  they  are  dolefully  sighing 
that  the  empire  of  America  is  to  pass  away  and  leave  no 
relic  of  genius.  In  their  small  way  they  were  doing  what 
they  could  toward  such  a  consummation.  It  may  be  said 
that  this  frame  of  mind  was  perfectly  natural  under  the 
circumstances;  but  it  is  not  to  the  purpose  to  inquire  into 
causes  and  motives;  it  is  enough  to  state  the  fact.  Here 
was  a  set  of  men  of  more  than  average  talents  and  educa 
tion;  not  men  of  real  talent  and  quality,  like  Irving,  but 
clever  men,  forming  one  of  the  two  or  three  small-  groups 
of  literary  persons  in  the  United  States.  They  come  before 
us  as  true  provincials,  steeped  to  the  eyes  in  colonialism, 
and  they  fairly  represent  the  condition  of  American  litera 
ture  at  that  time.  They  were  slaves  to  the  colonial  spirit, 
which  bowed  before  England  and  Europe.  They  have  not 
left  a  name  or  a  line  which  is  remembered  or  read,  except 
to  serve  as  a  historical  illustration,  and  they  will  ulti 
mately  find  their  fit  resting-place  in  the  foot-notes  of  the 
historian. 

With  the  close  of  the  English  war  the  United  States 
entered  upon  the  second  stage  of  their  development.  The 
new  era,  which  began  in  1815,  lasted  until  1861.  It  was  a 
period  of  growth,  not  simply  in  the  direction  of  a  vast  mate- 


426  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

rial  prosperity  and  a  rapidly  increasing  population,  but  in 
national  sentiment,  which  made  itself  felt  everywhere. 
Wherever  we  turn  during  those  years,  we  discover  a  steady 
decline  of  the  colonial  influence.  Politics  had  become  wholly 
national  and  independent.  The  law  was  illustrated  by  great 
names,  which  take  high  rank  in  the  annals  of  English  juris 
prudence.  Medicine  began  to  have  its  schools,  and  to  show 
practitioners  who  no  longer  looked  across  the  sea  for  inspi 
ration.  The  Monroe  doctrine  bore  witness  to  the  strong 
foreign  policy  of  an  independent  people.  The  tariff  gave 
evidence  of  the  eager  desire  for  industrial  independence, 
which  found  practical  expression  in  the  fast-growing  native 
manufactures.  Internal  improvements  were  a  sign  of  the 
general  faith  and  interest  in  the  development  of  the  na 
tional  resources.  The  rapid  multiplication  of  inventions 
resulted  from  the  natural  genius  of  America  in  that  im 
portant  field,  where  it  took  almost  at  once  a  leading  place. 
Science  began  to  have  a  home  at  our  seats  of  learning, 
and  in  the  land  of  Franklin  found  a  congenial  soil. 

But  the  colonial  spirit,  cast  out  from  our  politics  and  fast 
disappearing  from  business  and  the  professions,  still  clung 
closely  to  literature,  which  must  always  be  the  best  and  last 
expression  of  a  national  mode  of  thought.  In  the  admirable 
Life  of  Cooper,  recently  published,  by  Professor  Lounsbury, 
the  condition  of  our  literature  in  1820  is  described  so  vividly 
and  so  exactly  that  it  cannot  be  improved.  It  is  as  fol 
lows  : — 

"  The  intellectual  dependence  of  America  upon  England 
at  that  period  is  something  that  it  is  now  hard  to  under 
stand.  Political  supremacy  had  been  cast  off,  but  the  su 
premacy  of  opinion  remained  absolutely  unshaken.  Of 
creative  literature  there  was  then  very  little  of  any  value 
produced;  and  to  that  little  a  foreign  stamp  was  necessary, 
to  give  currency  outside  of  the  petty  circle  in  which  it 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  427 

originated.  There  was  slight  encouragement  for  the  author 
to  write;  there  was  still  less  for  the  publisher  to  print.  It 
was,  indeed,  a  positive  injury,  ordinarily,  to  the  commercial 
credit  of  a  bookseller  to  bring  out  a  volume  of  poetry  or  of 
prose  fiction  which  had  been  written  by  an  American;  for 
it  was  almost  certain  to  fail  to  pay  expenses.  A  sort  of 
critical  literature  was  struggling,  or  rather  gasping,  for  a 
life  that  was  hardly  worth  living ;  for  its  most  marked  char 
acteristic  was  its  servile  deference  to  English  judgment  and 
dread  of  English  censure.  It  requires  a  painful  and  peni 
tential  examination  of  the  reviews  of  the  period  to  compre 
hend  the  utter  abasement  of  mind  with  which  the  men  of 
that  day  accepted  the  foreign  estimate  upon  works  written 
here,  which  had  been  read  by  themselves,  but  which  it  was 
clear  had  not  been  read  by  the  critics  whose  opinions  they 
echoed.  Even  the  meekness  with  which  they  submitted  to 
the  most  depreciatory  estimate  of  themselves  was  outdone 
by  the  anxiety  with  which  they  hurried  to  assure  the  world 
that  they,  the  most  cultivated  of  the  American  race,  did 
not  presume  to  have  so  high  an  opinion  of  the  writings  of 
some  one  of  their  countrymen  as  had  been  expressed  by 
enthusiasts,  whose  patriotism  had  proved  too  much  for 
their  discernment.  Never  was  any  class  so  eager  to  free 
itself  from  charges  that  imputed  to  it  the  presumption  of 
holding  independent  views  of  its  own.  Out  of  the  intel 
lectual  character  of  many  of  those  who  at  that  day  pre 
tended  to  be  the  representatives  of  the  highest  education 
in  this  country,  it  almost  seemed  that  the  element  of  man 
liness  had  been  wholly  eliminated ;  and  that,  along  with  its 
sturdy  democracy,  whom  no  obstacles  thwarted  and  no 
dangers  daunted,  the  New  World  was  also  to  give  birth  to 
a  race  of  literary  cowards  and  parasites.'' 

The  case  is  vigorously  stated,  but  is  not  at  all  over 
charged.    Far  stronger,  indeed,  than  Professor  Lounsbury's 


428  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

statement  is  the  commentary  furnished  by  Cooper's  first 
book.  This  novel,  now  utterly  forgotten,  was  entitled  Pre 
caution.  Its  scene  was  laid  "wholly  in  England;  its  char 
acters  were  drawn  from  English  society,  chiefly  from  the 
aristocracy  of  that  favored  land;  its  conventional  phrases 
were  all  English;  worst  and  most  extraordinary  of  all,  it 
professed  to  be  by  an  English  author,  and  was  received  on 
that  theory  without  suspicion.  In  such  a  guise  did  the 
most  popular  of  American  novelists  and  one  of  the  most 
eminent  among  modern  writers  of  fiction  first  appear  before 
his  countrymen  and  the  world.  If  this  were  not  so  pitiable, 
it  would  be  utterly  ludicrous  and  yet  the  most  melancholy 
feature  of  the  case  is  that  Cooper  was  not  in  the  least  to 
blame,  and  no  one  found  fault  with  him,  for  his  action 
was  regarded  by  everyone  as  a  matter  of  course.  In  other 
words,  the  first  step  of  an  American  entering  upon  a  lit 
erary  career  was  to  pretend  to  be  an  Englishman,  in  order 
that  he  might  win  the  approval,  not  of  Englishmen,  but 
of  his  own  countrymen. 

If  this  preposterous  state  of  public  opinion  had  been  a 
mere  passing  fashion  it  would  hardly  be  worth  recording. 
But  it  represented  a  fixed  and  settled  habit  of  mind,  and 
is  only  one  example  of  a  long  series  of  similar  phenomena. 
We  look  back  to  the  years  preceding  the  revolution,  and 
there  we  find  this  mental  condition  flourishing  and  strong. 
At  that  time  it  hardly  calls  for  comment,  because  it  was  so 
perfectly  natural.  It  is  when  we  find  such  opinions  existing 
in  the  year  1820  that  we  are  conscious  of  their  significance. 
They  belong  to  colonists,  and  yet  they  are  uttered  by  the 
citizens  of  a  great  and  independent  state.  The  sorriest  part 
of  it  is  that  these  views  were  chiefly  held  by  the  best  edu 
cated  portion  of  the  community.  The  great  body  of  the 
American  people,  who  had  cast  out  the  colonial  spirit  from 
their  politics  and  their  business,  and  were  fast  destroying 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  429 

it  in  the  professions,  was  sound  and  true.  The  parasitic 
literature  of  that  day  makes  the  boastful  and  rhetorical 
patriotism  then  in  the  exuberance  of  youth  seem  actually 
noble  and  fine,  because,  with  all  its  faults,  it  was  honest, 
genuine,  and  inspired  by  a  real  love  of  country. 

Yet  it  was  during  this  period,  between  the  years  1815  and 
1861,  that  we  began  to  have  a  literature  of  our  own,  and  one 
in  which  any  people  could  take  a  just  pride.  Cooper  him 
self  was  the  pioneer.  In  his  second  novel,  The  Spy,  he  threw 
off  the  wretched  spirit  of  the  colonist,  and  the  story,  which 
at  once  gained  a  popularity  that  broke  down  all  barriers, 
was  read  everywhere  with  delight  and  approbation.  The 
chief  cause  of  the  difference  between  the  fate  of  this  novel 
and  that  of  its  predecessor  lies  in  the  fact  that  The  Spy  was 
of  genuine  native  origin.  Cooper  knew  and  loved  American 
scenery  and  life.  He  understood  certain  phases  of  Ameri 
can  character  on  the  prairie  and  the  ocean,  and  his  genius 
was  no  longer  smothered  by  the  dead  colonialism  of  the 
past.  The  Spy,  and  those  of  Cooper's  novels  which  belong 
to  the  same  class,  have  lived  and  will  live,  and  certain 
American  characters  which  he  drew  will  likewise  endure. 
He  might  have  struggled  all  his  life  in  the  limbo  of  intel 
lectual  servitude  to  which  Moore's  friends  consigned  them 
selves,  and  no  one  would  have  cared  for  him  then  or  re 
membered  him  now.  But,  with  all  his  foibles,  Cooper  was 
inspired  by  an  intense  patriotism,  and  he  had  a  bold,  vigor 
ous,  aggressive  nature.  He  freed  his  talents  at  a  stroke, 
and  giving  them  full  play  attained  at  once  a  world-wide 
reputation,  which  no  man  of  colonial  mind  could  ever  have 
dreamed  of  reaching.  Yet  his  countrymen,  long  before  his 
days  of  strife  and  unpopularity,  seem  to  have  taken  singu 
larly  little  patriotic  pride  in  his  achievements,  and  the  well 
bred  and  well  educated  shuddered  to  hear  him  called  the 
"  American  Scott " ;  not  because  they  thought  this  truly 


430  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

colonial  description  inappropriate  and  misapplied,  but  be 
cause  it  was  a  piece  of  irreverent  audacity  toward  a  great 
light  of  English  literature. 

Cooper  was  the  first,  after  the  close  of  the  war  of  1812, 
to  cast  off  the  colonial  spirit  and  take  up  his  position  as 
a  representative  of  genuine  American  literature ;  but  he  soon 
had  companions,  who  carried  still  higher  the  standard  which 
he  had  raised.  To  this  period,  which  closed  with  our  civil 
war,  belong  many  of  the  names  which  are  to-day  among 
those  most  cherished  by  English-speaking  people  every 
where.  We  see  the  national  spirit  in  Longfellow  turning 
from  the  themes  of  the  Old  World  to  those  of  the  New. 
In  the  beautiful  creations  of  the  sensitive  and  delicate  imagi 
nation  of  Hawthorne,  there  was  a  new  tone  and  a  rich 
originality,  and  the  same  influence  may  be  detected  in  the 
remarkable  poems  and  the  wild  fancies  of  Poe.  We  find  a 
like  native  strength  in  the  sparkling  verses  of  Holmes,  in 
the  pure  and  gentle  poetry  of  Whittier,  and  in  the  firm, 
vigorous  work  of  Lowell.  A  new  leader  of  independent 
thought  arises  in  Emerson,  destined  to  achieve  a  world 
wide  reputation.  A  new  school  of  historians  appears, 
adorned  by  the  talents  of  Prescott,  Bancroft,  and  Motley. 
Many  of  these  distinguished  men  were  far  removed  in  point 
of  time  from  the  beginning  of  the  new  era,  but  they  all 
belonged  to  and  were  the  result  of  the  national  movement, 
which  began  its  onward  march  as  soon  as  we  had  shaken 
ourselves  clear  from  the  influence  of  the  colonial  spirit  upon 
our  public  affairs  by  the  struggle  which  culminated  in 
"  Madison's  war,"  as  the  Federalists  loved  to  call  it. 

These  successes  in  the  various  departments  of  intellectual 
activity  were  all  due  to  an  instinctive  revolt  against  colonial 
ism.  But,  nevertheless,  the  old  and  time-worn  spirit  which 
made  Cooper  pretend  to  be  an  Englishman  in  1820  was  very 
strong,  and  continued  to  impede  our  progress  toward  intel- 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  431 

lectual  independence.  We  find  it  clinging  to  the  lesser 
and  weaker  forms  of  literature.  We  see  it  in  fashion  and 
society  and  in  habits  of  thought,  but  we  find  the  best  proof 
of  its  vitality  in  our  sensitiveness  to  foreign  opinion.  This 
was  a  universal  failing.  The  body  of  the  people  showed 
it  by  bitter  resentment;  the  cultivated  and  highly  educated 
by  abject  submission  and  deprecation,  or  by  cries  of 
pain. 

As  was  natural  in  a  very  young  nation,  just  awakened 
to  its  future  destiny,  just  conscious  of  its  still  undeveloped 
strength,  there  was  at  this  time  a  vast  amount  of  exuberant 
self-satisfaction,  of  cheap  rhetoric,  and  of  noisy  self-glorifi 
cation.  There  was  a  corresponding  readiness  to  take  offense 
at  the  unfavorable  opinion  of.  outsiders,  and  at  the  same 
time  an  eager  and  insatiable  curiosity  to  hear  foreign 
opinions  of  any  kind.  We  were,  of  course,  very  open  to 
satire  and  attack.  We  were  young,  undeveloped,  with  a 
crude,  almost  raw  civilization,  and  a  great  inclination  to 
be  boastful  and  conceited.  Our  English  cousins,  who  had 
failed  to  conquer  us,  bore  us  no  good  will,  and  were  quite 
ready  to  take  all  the  revenge  which  books  of  travel  and 
criticism  could  afford.  It  is  to  these  years  that  Marryat, 
Trollope,  Hamilton,  Dickens,  and  a  host  of  others  belong. 
Most  of  their  productions  are  quite  forgotten  now.  The 
only  ones  which  are  still  read,  probably,  are  the  American 
Notes  and  Martin  Chuzzlewit:  the  former  preserved  by  the 
fame  of  the  author,  the  latter  by  its  own  merit  as  a  novel. 
There  was  abundant  truth  in  what  Dickens  said,  to  take 
the  great  novelist  as  the  type  of  this  group  of  foreign  critics. 
It  was  an  age  in  which  Elijah  Pogram  and  Jefferson  Brick 
flourished  rankly.  It  is  also  true  that  all  that  Dickens 
wrote  was  poisoned  by  his  utter  ingratitude,  and  that  to 
describe  the  United  States  as  populated  by  nothing  but 
Bricks  and  Pograms  was  one-sided  and  malicious,  and  not 


432  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

true  to  facts.  But  the  truth  or  the  falsehood,  the  value  or 
the  worthlessness,  of  these  criticisms  are  not  of  importance 
now.  The  striking  fact,  and  the  one  we  are  in  search  of, 
is  the  manner  in  which  we  bore  these  censures  when  they 
appeared.  We  can  appreciate  contemporary  feeling  at  that 
time  only  by  delving  in  much  forgotten  literature ;  and  even 
then  we  can  hardly  comprehend  fully  what  we  find,  so  com 
pletely  has  our  habit  of  mind  altered  since  those  days.  We 
received  these  strictures  with  a  howl  of  anguish  and  a 
scream  of  mortified  vanity.  We  winced  and  writhed,  and 
were  almost  ready  to  go  to  war,  because  English  travelers 
and  writers  abused  us.  It  is  usual  now  to  refer  these 
ebullitions  of  feeling  to  our  youth,  probably  from  analogy 
with  the  youth  of  an  individual.  But  the  analogy  is  mis 
leading.  Sensitiveness  to  foreign  opinion  is  not  especially 
characteristic  of  a  youthful  nation,  or,  at  least,  we  have 
no  cases  to  prove  it,  and  in  the  absence  of  proof  the  theory 
falls.  On  the  other  hand,  this  excessive  and  almost  morbid 
sensibility  is  a  characteristic  of  provincial,  colonial,  or  de 
pendent  states,  especially  in  regard  to  the  mother  country. 
We  raged  and  cried  out  against  adverse  English  criticism, 
whether  it  was  true  or  false,  just  or  unjust,  and  we  paid 
it  this  unnatural  attention  because  the  spirit  of  the  colonist 
still  lurked  in  our  hearts  and  affected  our  mode  of  thought. 
We  were  advancing  fast  on  the  road  to  intellectual  and  moral 
independence,  but  we  were  still  far  from  the  goal. 

This  second  period  in  our  history  closed,  as  has  been  said, 
with  the  struggle  generated  by  a  great  moral  question,  which 
finally  absorbed  all  the  thoughts  and  passions  of  the  people, 
and  culminated  in  a  terrible  civil  war.  We  fought  to  pre 
serve  the  integrity  of  the  Union ;  we  fought  for  our  national 
life,  and  nationality  prevailed.  The  magnitude  of  the  con 
flict,  the  dreadful  suffering  which  it  caused  for  the  sake 
of  principle,  the  uprising  of  a  great  people,  elevated  and 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  433 

ennobled  the  whole  country.  The  flood-gates  were  opened, 
and  the  tremendous  tide  of  national  feeling  swept  away 
every  meaner  emotion.  We  came  out  of  the  battle,  after 
an  experience  which  brought  a  sudden  maturity  with  it, 
stronger  than  ever,  but  much  graver  and  soberer  than  before. 
We  came  out  self-poised  and  self-reliant,  with  a  true  sense 
of  dignity  and  of  our  national  greatness,  which  years  of 
peaceful  development  could  not  have  given  us.  The  sensi 
tiveness  to  foreign  opinion  which  had  been  the  marked 
feature  of  our  mental  condition  before  the  war  had  disap 
peared.  It  had  vanished  in  the  smoke  of  battle,  as  the 
colonial  spirit  disappeared  from  our  politics  in  the  war  of 
1812.  Englishmen  and  Frenchmen  have  come  and  gone,  and 
written  their  impressions  of  us,  and  made  little  splashes 
in  the  current  of  every-day  topics,  and  have  been  forgotten. 
Just  now  it  is  the  fashion  for  every  Englishman  who  visits 
this  country,  particularly  if  he  is  a  man  of  any  note,  to  go 
home  and  tell  the  world  what  he  thinks  of  us.  Some  of 
these  writers  do  this  without  taking  the  trouble  to  come  here 
first.  Sometimes  we  read  what  they  have  to  say  out  of 
curiosity.  We  accept  what  is  true,  whether  unpalatable  or 
not,  philosophically,  and  smile  at  what  is  false.  The  gen 
eral  feeling  is  one  of  wholesome  indifference.  We  no  longer 
see  salvation  and  happiness  in  favorable  foreign  opinion, 
or  misery  in  the  reverse.  The  colonial  spirit  in  this  direc 
tion  also  is  practically  extinct. 

But  while  this  is  true  of  the  mass  of  the  American  people 
whose  mental  health  is  good,  and  is  also  true  of  the  great 
body  of  sound  public  opinion  in  the  United  States,  it  has 
some  marked  exceptions ;  and  these  exceptions  constitute 
the  lingering  remains  of  the  colonial  spirit,  which  survives, 
and  shows  itself  here  and  there  even  at  the  present  day, 
with  a  strange  vitality. 

In  the  years  which  followed  the  close  of  the  war,  it  seemed 


434  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

as  if  colonialism  had  been  utterly  extinguished:  but,  un 
fortunately,  this  was  not  the  case.  The  multiplication  of 
great  fortunes,  the  growth  of  a  class  rich  by  inheritance, 
and  the  improvement  in  methods  of  travel  and  communi 
cation,  all  tended  to  carry  large  numbers  of  Americans  to 
Europe.  The  luxurious  fancies  which  were  born  of  in 
creased  wealth,  and  the  intellectual  tastes  which  were 
developed  by  the  advance  of  the  higher  education,  and  to 
which,  an  old  civilization  offers  peculiar  advantages  and 
attractions,  combined  to  breed  in  many  persons  a  love  of 
foreign  life  and  foreign  manners.  These  tendencies  and 
opportunities  have  revived  the  dying  spirit  of  colonialism. 
We  see  it  most  strongly  in  the  leisure  class,  which  is  gradu 
ally  increasing  in  this  country.  During  the  miserable  as 
cendancy  of  the  Second  Empire,  a  band  of  these  persons 
formed  what  was  known  as  the  "  American  colony,"  in 
Paris.  Perhaps  they  still  exist ;  if  so,  their  existence  is  now 
less  flagrant  and  more  decent.  When  they  were  notorious 
they  presented  the  melancholy  spectacle  of  Americans  ad 
miring  and  aping  the  manners,  habits,  and  vices  of  another 
nation,  when  that  nation  was  bent  and  corrupted  by  the 
cheap,  meretricious,  and  rotten  system  of  the  third  Na 
poleon.  They  furnished  a  very  offensive  example  of  pecu 
liarly  mean  colonialism.  This  particular  phase  has  departed, 
but  the  same  sort  of  Americans  are,  unfortunately,  still 
common  in  Europe.  I  do  not  mean,  of  course,  those  persons 
who  go  abroad  to  buy  social  consideration,  nor  the  women 
who  trade  on  their  beauty  or  their  wits  to  gain  a  brief  and 
dishonoring  notoriety.  These  last  are  merely  adventurers 
and  adventuresses,  who  are  common  to  all  nations.  The 
people  referred  to  here  form  that  large  class,  comprising 
many  excellent  men  and  women,  no  doubt,  who  pass  their 
lives  in  Europe,  mourning  over  the  inferiority  of  their  own 
country,  and  who  become  thoroughly  denationalized.  They 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  435 

do  not  change  into  Frenchmen  or  Englishmen,  but  are 
simply  disfigured  and  deformed  Americans. 

We  find  the  same  wretched  habit  of  thought  in  certain 
groups  among  the  rich  and  idle  people  of  our  great  eastern 
cities,  especially  in  New  York,  because  it  is  the  metropolis. 
These  groups  are  for  the  most  part  made  up  of  young  men 
who  despise  everything  American  and  admire  everything 
English.  They  talk  and  dress  and  walk  and  ride  in  certain 
ways,  because  they  imagine  that  the  English  do  these  things 
after  that  fashion.  They  hold  their  own  country  in  contempt, 
and  lament  the  hard  fate  of  their  birth.  They  try  to  think 
that  they  form  an  aristocracy,  and  become  at  once  ludicrous 
and  despicable.  The  virtues  which  have  made  the  upper 
classes  in  England  what  they  are,  and  which  take  them 
into  public  affairs,  into  literature  and  politics,  are  forgotten, 
for  Anglo-Americans  imitate  the  vices  or  the  follies  of  their 
models,  and  stop  there.  If  all  this  were  merely  a  fleeting 
fashion,  an  attack  of  Anglo-mania  or  of  Gallo-mania,  of 
which  there  have  been  instances  enough  everywhere,  it 
would  be  of  no  consequence.  But  it  is  a  recurrence  of  the 
old  and  deep-seated  malady  of  colonialism.  It  is  a  lineal 
descendant  of  the  old  colonial  family.  The  features  are 
somewhat  dim  now,  and  the  vitality  is  low,  but  there  is  no 
mistaking  the  hereditary  traits.  The  people  who  thus  de 
spise  their  own  land,  and  ape  English  manners,  flatter 
themselves  with  being  cosmopolitans,  when  in  truth 
they  are  genuine  colonists,  petty  and  provincial  to  the  last 
degree. 

We  see  a  like  tendency  in  the  same  limited  but  marked 
way  in  our  literature.  Some  of  our  cleverest  fiction  is 
largely  devoted  to  studying  the  character  of  o'ur  country 
men  abroad ;  that  is,  either  denationalized  Americans  or 
Americans  with  a  foreign  background.  At  times  this  species 
of  literature  resolves  itself  into  an  agonized  effort  to  show 


436  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

how  foreigners  regard  us,  and  to  point  out  the  defects  which 
jar  upon  foreign  susceptibilities  even  while  it  satirizes  the 
denationalized  American.  The  endeavor  to  turn  ourselves 
inside  out  in  order  to  appreciate  the  trivialities  of  life  which 
impress  foreigners  unpleasantly  is  very  unprofitable  exer 
tion,  and  the  Europeanized  American  is  not  worth  either 
study  or  satire.  Writings  of  this  kind,  again,  are  intended 
to  be  cosmopolitan  in  tone,  and  to  evince  a  knowledge  of 
the  world,  and  yet  they  are  in  reality  steeped  in  colonialism. 
We  cannot  but  regret  the  influence  of  a  spirit  which  wastes 
fine  powers  of  mind  and  keen  perceptions  in  a  fruitless  striv 
ing  and  a  morbid  craving  to  know  how  we  appear  to 
foreigners,  and  to  show  what  they  think  of  us. 

We  see,  also,  men  and  women  of  talent  going  abroad  to 
study  art  and  remaining  there.  The  atmosphere  of  Europe 
is  more  congenial  to  such  pursuits,  and  the  struggle  as  noth 
ing  to  what  must  be  encountered  here.  But  when  it  leads 
to  an  abandonment  of  America,  the  result  is  wholly  vain. 
Sometimes  these  people  become  tolerably  successful  French 
artists,  but  their  nationality  and  individuality  have  departed, 
and  with  them  originality  and  force.  The  admirable  school 
of  etching  which  has  arisen  in  New  York ;  the  beautiful  work 
of  American  wood-engraving ;  the  Chelsea  tiles  of  Low, 
which  have  won  the  highest  prizes  at  English  exhibitions ; 
the  silver  of  Tiffany,  specimens  of  which  were  bought  by  the 
Japanese  commissioners  at  the  Paris  Exposition,  are  all 
strong,  genuine  work,  and  are  doing  more  for  American 
art,  and  for  all  art,  than  a  wilderness  of  over-educated  and 
denationalized  Americans  who  are  painting  pictures  and 
carving  statues  and  writing  music  in  Europe  or  in  the 
United  States,  in  the  spirit  of  colonists,  and  bowed  down 
by  a  wretched  dependence. 

There  is  abundance  of  splendid  material  all  about  us 
here  for  the  poet,  the  artist,  or  the  novelist,  The  condi- 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  437 

tions  are  not  the  same  as  in  Europe,  but  they  are  not  on 
that  account  inferior.  They  are  certainly  as  good.  They 
may  be  better.  Our  business  is  not  to  grumble  because 
they  are  different,  for  that  is  colonial.  We  must  adapt  our 
selves  to  them,  for  we  alone  can  use  properly  our  own 
resources ;  and  no  work  in  art  or  literature  ever  has  been, 
or  ever  will  be,  of  any  real  or  lasting  value  which  is  not 
true,  original,  and  independent. 

If  these  remnants  of  the  colonial  spirit  and  influence  were, 
as  they  look  at  first  sight,  merely  trivial  accidents,  they 
would  not  be  worth  mentioning.  But  the  range  of  their 
influence,  although  limited,  affects  an  important  class.  It 
appears  almost  wholly  among  the  rich  or  the  highly  edu 
cated  in  art  and  literature ;  that  is,  to  a  large  extent  among 
men  and  women  of  talent  and  refined  sensibilities.  The 
follies  of  those  who  imitate  English  habits  belong  really  to 
but  a  small  portion  of  even  their  own  class.  But  as  these 
follies  are  contemptible,  the  wholesome  prejudice  which 
they  excite  is  naturally,  but  thoughtlessly,  extended  to  all 
who  have  anything  in  common  with  those  who  are  guilty 
of  them.  In  this  busy  country  of  ours,  the  men  of  leisure 
and  education,  although  increasing  in  number,  are  still  few, 
and  they  have  heavier  duties  and  responsibilities  than  any 
where  else.  Public  charities,  public  affairs,  politics,  litera 
ture,  all  demand  the  energies  of  such  men.  To  the  country 
which  has  given  them  wealth  and  leisure  and  education  they 
owe  the  duty  of  faithful  service,  because  they,  and  they 
alone,  can  afford  to  do  that  work  which  must  be  done  with 
out  pay.  The  few  who  are  imbued  with  the  colonial  spirit 
not  only  fail  in  their  duty,  and  become  contemptible  and 
absurd,  but  they  injure  the  influence  and  thwart  the  activity 
of  the  great  majority  of  those  who  are  similarly  situated, 
and  who  are  also  patriotic  and  public  spirited. 

In  art  and  literature  the  vain  struggle  to  be  somebody 


AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

or  something  other  than  an  American,  the  senseless  admira 
tion  of  everything  foreign,  and  the  morbid  anxiety  about 
our  appearance  before  foreigners  have  the  same  deadening 
effect.  Such  qualities  were  bad  enough  in  1820.  They  are 
a  thousand  times  meaner  and  more  foolish  now.  They 
retard  the  march  of  true  progress,  which  here,  as  elsewhere, 
must  be  in  the  direction  of  nationality  and  independence. 
This  does  not  mean  that  we  are  to  expect  or  to  seek  for 
something  utterly  different,  something  new  and  strange,  in 
art,  literature,  or  society.  Originality  is  thinking  for  one's 
self.  Simply  to  think  differently  from  other  people  is  eccen 
tricity.  Some  of  our  English  cousins,  for  instance,  have 
undertaken  to  hold  Walt  Whitman  up  as  the  herald  of  the 
coming  literature  of  American  democracy,  not  because  he 
was  a  genius,  not  for  his  merits  alone,  but  largely  because  he 
departed  from  all  received  forms,  and  indulged  in  bar 
barous  eccentricities.  They  mistake  difference  for  originality. 
Whitman  was  a  true  and  a  great  poet,  but  it  was  his  power 
and  imagination  which  made  him  so,  not  his  eccentricities. 
When  Whitman  did  best,  he  was,  as  a  rule,  nearest  to  the 
old  and  well-proved  forms.  We,  like  our  contemporaries 
everywhere,  are  the  heirs  of  the  ages,  and  we  must  study 
the  past,  and  learn  from  it,  and  advance  from  what  has 
been  already  tried  and  found  good.  That  is  the  only  way 
to  success  anywhere,  or  in  anything.  But  we  cannot  enter 
upon  that  or  any  other  road  until  we  are  truly  national  and 
independent  intellectually,  and  are  ready  to  think  for  our 
selves,  and  not  look  to  foreigners  in  order  to  find  out  what 
they  think. 

To  those  who  grumble  and  sigh  over  the  inferiority  of 
America  we  may  commend  the  opinion  of  a  distinguished 
Englishman,  as  they  prefer  such  authority.  Mr.  Herbert 
Spencer  said,  recently,  "  I  think  that  whatever  difficulties 
they  may  have  to  surmount,  and  whatever  tribulations  they 


COLONIALISM  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  439 

may  have  to  pass  through,  the  Americans  may  reasonably 
look  forward  to  a  time  when  they  will  have  produced  a 
civilization  grander  than  any  the  world  has  known."  Even 
the  Englishmen  whom  our  provincials  of  to-day  adore,  even 
those  who  are  most  hostile,  pay  a  serious  attention  to 
America.  That  keen  respect  for  success  and  anxious  defer 
ence  to  power  so  characteristic  of  Great  Britain  find  expres 
sion  every  day,  more  and  more,  in  the  English  interest 
in  the  United  States,  now  that  we  do  not  care  in  the  least 
about  it ;  and  be  it  said  in  passing,  no  people  despises  more 
heartily  than  the  English  a  man  who  does  not  love  his  coun 
try.  To  be  despised  abroad,  and  regarded  with  contempt 
and  pity  at  home,  is  not  a  very  lofty  result  of  so  much 
effort  on  the  part  of  our  lovers  of  the  British.  But  it  is 
the  natural  and  fit  reward  of  colonialism.  Members  of  a 
great  nation  instinctively  patronize  colonists. 

It  is  interesting  to  examine  the  sources  of  the  colonial 
spirit,  and  to  trace  its  influence  upon  our  history  and  its 
gradual  decline.  The  study  of  a  habit  of  mind,  with  its 
tenacity  of  life,  is  an  instructive  and  entertaining  branch 
of  history.  But  if  we  lay  history  and  philosophy  aside, 
the  colonial  spirit  as  it  survives  to-day,  although  curious 
enough,  is  a  mean  and  noxious  thing,  which  cannot  be  too 
quickly  or  too  thoroughly  stamped  out.  It  is  the  dying  spirit 
of  dependence,  and  wherever  it  still  clings  it  injures,  weak 
ens,  and  degrades.  It  should  be  exorcised  rapidly  and  com 
pletely,  so  that  it  will  never  return.  I  cannot  close  more  fitly 
than  with  the  noble  words  of  Emerson  : — 

"  Let  the  passion  for  America  cast  out  the  passion  for 
Europe.  They  who  find  America  insipid,  they  for  whom 
London  and  Paris  have  spoiled  their  own  homes,  can  be 
spared  to  return  to  those  cities.  I  not  only  see  a  career 
at  home  for  more  genius  than  we  have,  but  for  more  than 
there  is  in  the  world." 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS 
W.  C.  BROWNELL 

No  American,  not  a  commercial  or  otherwise  hardened 
traveler,  can  have  a  soul  so  dead  as  to  be  incapable  of 
emotion  when,  on  his  return  from  a  long  trip  abroad,  he 
catches  sight  of  the  low-lying  and  insignificant  Long  Island 
coast.  One's  excitement  begins,  indeed,  with  the  pilot-boat. 
The  pilot-boat  is  the  first  concrete  symbol  of  those  native 
and  normal  relations  with  one's  fellow-men,  which  one  has 
so  long  observed  in  infinitely  varied  manifestation  abroad, 
but  always  as  a  spectator  and  a  stranger,  and  which  one 
is  now  on  the  eve  of  sharing  himself.  As  she  comes  up 
swiftly,  white  and  graceful,  drops  her  pilot,  crosses  the 
steamer's  bows,  tacks,  and  picks  up  her  boat  in  the  foaming 
wake,  she  presents  a  spectacle  beside  which  the  most  pic 
turesque  Mediterranean  craft,  with  colored  sails  and  lazy 
evolutions,  appear  mistily  in  the  memory  as  elements  of  a 
feeble  and  conventional  ideal.  The  ununiformed  pilot  clam 
bers  on  board,  makes  his  way  to  the  bridge,  and  takes  com 
mand  with  an  equal  lack  of  French  manner  and  of  English 
affectation  distinctly  palpable  to  the  sense,  sharpened  by 
long  absence  into  observing  native  characteristics  as  closely 
as  foreign  ones.  If  the  season  be  right  the  afternoon  is 
bright,  the  range  of  vision  apparently  limitless,  the  sky 
nearly  cloudless  and,  by  contrast  with  the  European  firma 
ment,  almost  colorless,  the  July  sun  such  as  no  Parisian  or 
Londoner  ever  saw.  The  French  reproach  us  for  having  no 
word  for  "  patrie  "  as  distinct  from  "  pays  '' ;  we  have  the 

440 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS  441 

thing  at  all  events,  and  cherish  it,  and  it  needs  only  the 
proximity  of  the  foreigner,  from  whom  in  general  we  are 
so  widely  separated,  to  give  our  patriotism  a  tinge  of  the 
veriest  chauvinism  that  exists  in  France  itself. 

We   fancy  the   feeling  old-fashioned,   and  imagine   ours 
to  be  the  most  cosmopolitan,  the  least  prejudiced  tempera 
ment  in  the  world.    It  is  reasonable  that  it  should  be.     The 
extreme  sensitiveness  noticed  in  us  by  all  foreign  observers 
during  the  antebellum  epoch,  and  ascribed  by  Tocqueville 
to  our  self-distrust,  is  naturally  inconsistent  with  our  posi 
tion  and  circumstances  to-day.     A  population  greater  than 
that  of  any  of  the  great  nations,  isolated  by  the  most  en 
viable  geographical  felicity  in  the  world  from  the  narrowing 
influences  of  international  jealousy  apparent  to  every  Ameri 
can  who  travels  in  Europe,  is  increasingly  less  concerned 
at  criticism  than  a  struggling  provincial  republic  of  half 
its  size.    And  along  with  our  self-confidence  and  our  care 
lessness  of  "  abroad,"  it  is  only  with  the  grosser  element 
among  us  that  national  conceit  has  deepened ;  in  general,  we 
are  apt  to  fancy  we  have  become  cosmopolitan  in  proportion 
as  we  have  lost  our  provincialism.    With  us  surely  the  indi 
vidual  has  not  withered,  and  if  the  world  has  become  more 
and  more  to  him,  it  is  because  it  is  the  world  at  large  and 
not  the  pent-up  confines  of  his  own  country's  history  and 
extent.     "  La  patrie  "  in  danger  would  be  quickly  enough 
rescued — there  is  no  need  to  prove  that  over  again,  even 
to  our  own  satisfaction ;  but  in  general  "  la  patrie  "  not  being 
in  any  danger,  being  on  the  contrary  apparently  on  the  very 
crest  of  the  wave  of  the  world,  it  is  felt  not  to  need  much 
of  one's  active  consideration,  and  passively  indeed  is  viewed 
by  many  people,  probably,  as  a  comfortable  and  gigantic 
contrivance  for  securing  a  free  field  in  which  the  individual 
may    expand    and    develop.      "  America,"    says    Emerson, 
"  America  is  Opportunity/'    After  all,  the  average  American 


442  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

of  the  present  day  says,  a  country  stands  or  falls  by  the 
number  of  properly  expanded  and  developed  individuals  it 
possesses.  But  the  happening  of  any  one  of  a  dozen  things 
unexpectedly  betrays  that  all  this  cosmopolitanism  is  in  great 
measure,  and  so  far  as  sentiment  is  concerned,  a  veneer 
and  a  disguise.  Such  a  happening  is  the  very  change  from 
blue  water  to  gray  that  announces  to  the  returning  Ameri 
can  the  nearness  of  that  country  which  he  sometimes  thinks 
he  prizes  more  for  what  it  stands  for  than  for  itself.  It 
is  not,  he  then  feels  with  a  sudden  flood  of  emotion,  that 
America  is  home,  but  that  home  is  America.  America 
comes  suddenly  to  mean  what  it  never  meant  before. 

Unhappily  for  this  exaltation,  ordinary  life  is  not  com 
posed  of  emotional  crises.  It  is  ordinary  life  with  a  venge 
ance  which  one  encounters  in  issuing  from  the  steamer  dock 
and  facing  again  his  native  city.  Paris  never  looked  so 
lovely,  so  exquisite  to  the  sense  as  it  now  appears  in  the 
memory.  All  that  Parisian  regularity,  order,  decorum, 
and  beauty  into  which,  although  a  stranger,  your  own  activi 
ties  fitted  so  perfectly  that  you  were  only  half-conscious  of 
its  existence,  was  not,  then,  merely  normal,  wholly  a  matter 
of  course.  Emerging  into  West  Street,  amid  the  solicita 
tions  of  hackmen,  the  tinkling  jog-trot  of  the  most  ignoble 
horse-cars  you  have  seen  since  leaving  home,  the  dry  dust 
blowing  into  your  eyes,  the  gaping  black  holes  of  broken 
pavements,  the  unspeakable  filth,  the  line  of  red  brick  build 
ings  prematurely  decrepit,  the  sagging  multitude  of  telegraph 
wires,  the  clumsy  electric  lights  depending  before  the  beer 
saloon  and  the  groggery,  the  curious  confusion  of  spruce- 
ness  and  squalor  in  the  aspect  of  these  latter,  which  also 
seem  legion — confronting  all  this  for  the  first  time  in  three 
years,  say,  you  think  with  wonder  of  your  disappointment 
at  not  finding  the  Tuileries  Gardens  a  mass  of  flowers,  and 
with  a  blush  of  the  times  you  have  told  Frenchmen  that 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS  443 

New  York  was  very  much  like  Paris.  New  York  is  at 
this  moment  the  most  foreign-looking  city  you  have  ever 
seen;  in  going  abroad  the  American  discounts  the  unex 
pected  ;  returning  after  the  insensible  orientation  of  Europe, 
the  contrast  with  things  recently  familiar  is  prodigious, 
because  one  is  so  entirely  unprepared  for  it.  One  thinks 
to  be  at  home,  and  finds  himself  at  the  spectacle.  New 
York  is  less  like  any  European  city  than  any  European  city 
is  like  any  other.  It  is  distinguished  from  them  all — even 
from  London — by  the  ignoble  character  of  the  res  publics, 
and  the  refuge  of  taste,  care,  wealth,  pride,  self-respect  even, 
in  private  and  personal  regions.  A  splendid  carriage,  liv 
eried  servants  without  and  Paris  dresses  within,  rattling 
over  the  scandalous  paving,  splashed  by  the  neglected  mud, 
catching  the  rusty  drippings  of  the  hideous  elevated  rail 
way,  wrenching  its  axle  in  the  tram-track  in  avoiding  a 
mountainous  wagon  load  of  commerce  on  this  hand  and 
a  garbage  cart  on  that,  caught  in  a  jam  of  horse-cars  and  a 
blockade  of  trucks,  finally  depositing  its  dainty  freight  to 
pick  its  way  across  a  sidewalk  eloquent  of  official  neglect 
and  private  contumely,  to  a  shop  door  or  a  residence  stoop — 
such  a  contrast  as  this  sets  us  off  from  Europe  very  defi 
nitely  and  in  a  very  marked  degree. 

There  is  no  palpable  New  York  in  the  sense  in  which  there 
is  a  Paris,  a  Vienna,  a  Milan.  You  can  touch  it  at  no  point. 
It  is  not  even  ocular.  There  is  instead  a  Fifth  Avenue,  a 
Broadway,  a  Central  Park,  a  Chatham  Square.  How  they 
have  dwindled,  by  the  way.  Fifth  Avenue  might  be  any  one 
of  a  dozen  London  streets  in  the  first  impression  it  makes 
on  the  retina  and  leaves  on  the  mind.  The  opposite  side 
of  Madison  Square  is  but  a  step  away.  The  spacious  hall 
of  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  has  shrunk  to  stifling  proportions. 
Thirty-fourth  Street  is  a  lane ;  the  City  Hall  a  band-box ; 
the  Central  Park  a  narrow  strip  of  elegant  landscape  whose 


/I /I /I  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

lateral  limitations  are  constantly  forced  upon  the  sense  by 
the  Lenox  Library  on  one  side  and  a  monster  apartment 
house  on  the  other.  The  American  fondness  for  size — 
for  pure  bigness — needs  explanation,  it  appears ;  we  care 
for  size,  but  inartistically ;  we  care  nothing  for  proportion, 
which  is  what  makes  size  count.  Everything  is  on  the  same 
scale ;  there  is  no  play,  no  movement.  An  exception  should 
be  made  in  favor  of  the  big  business  building  and  the  apart 
ment  house  which  have  arisen  within  a  few  years,  and 
which  have  greatly  accentuated  the  grotesqueness  of  the 
city's  sky-line  as  seen  from  either  the  New  Jersey  or  the 
Long  Island  shore.  They  are  perhaps  rather  high  than 
big;  many  of  them  were  built  before  the  authorities  noticed 
them  and  followed  unequally  in  the  steps  of  other  civilized 
municipal  governments,  from  that  of  ancient  Rome  down, 
in  prohibiting  the  passing  of  a  fixed  limit.  But  bigness  has 
also  evidently  been  one  of  their  architectonic  motives,  and 
it  is  to  be  remarked  that  they  are  so  far  out  of  scale  with 
the  surrounding  buildings  as  to  avoid  the  usual  common 
place,  only  by  creating  a  positively  disagreeable  effect.  The 
aspect  of  Fifty-seventh  Street  between  Broadway  and  Sev 
enth  Avenue,  for  example,  is  certainly  that  of  the  world 
upside  down :  a  Gothic  church  utterly  concealed,  not  to  say 
crushed,  by  contiguous  flats,  and  confronted  by  the  over 
whelming  "  Osborne,"  which  towers  above  anything  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  perhaps  makes  the  most  powerful  impres 
sion  that  the  returned  traveler  receives  during  his  first  week 
or  two  of  strange  sensations.  Yet  the  "  Osborne's  "  dimen 
sions  are  not  very  different  from  those  of  the  Arc  de  1'Etoile. 
It  is  true  it  does  not  face  an  avenue  of  majestic  buildings 
a  mile  and  a  half  long  and  two  hundred  and  thirty  feet 
wide,  but  the  association  of  these  two  structures,  one  a  pri 
vate  enterprise  and  the  other  a  public  monument,  together 
with  the  obvious  suggestions  of  each,  furnish  a  not  mis- 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS  445 

leading  illustration  of  both  the  spectacular  and  the  moral 
contrast  between  New  York  and  Paris,  as  it  appears  unduly 
magnified  no  doubt  to  the  sense  surprised  to  notice  it 
at  all. 

Still  another  reason  for  the  foreign  aspect  of  the  New 
Yorker's  native  city  is  the  gradual  withdrawing  of  the 
American  element  into  certain  quarters,  its  transformation 
or  essential  modification  in  others,  and  in  the  rest  the  pres 
ence  of  the  lees  of  Europe.  At  every  step  you  are  forced 
to  realize  that  New  York  is  the  second  Irish  and  the  third 
or  fourth  German  city  in  the  world.  However  great  our 
success  in  drilling  this  foreign  contingent  of  our  social  army 
into  order  and  reason  and  self-respect — apd  it  is  not  to  be 
doubted  that  this  success  gives  us  a  distinction  wholly  new 
in  history — nevertheless  our  effect  upon  its  members  has 
been  in  the  direction  of  development  rather  than  of  assimi 
lation.  We  have  given  them  our  opportunity,  permitted 
them  the  expansion  denied  them  in  their  own  several  feu 
dalities,  made  men  of  serfs,  demonstrated  the  utility  of  self- 
government  under  the  most  trying  conditions,  proved  the 
efficacy  of  our  elastic  institutions  on  a  scale  truly  grandiose ; 
but  evidently,  so  far  as  New  York  is  concerned,  we  have 
done  this  at  the  sacrifice  of  a  distinct  and  obvious  nation 
ality.  To  an  observant  sense  New  York  is  nearly  as  little 
national  as  Port  Said.  It  contrasts  absolutely  in  this  respect 
with  Paris,  whose  assimilating  power  is  prodigious;  every 
foreigner  in  Paris  eagerly  seeks  Parisianization. 

Ocularly,  therefore,  the  "  note "  of  New  York  seems 
that  of  characterless  individualism.  The  monotony  of  the 
chaotic  composition  and  movement  is,  paradoxically,  its  most 
abiding  impression.  And  as  the  whole  is  destitute  of  defi- 
niteness,  of  distinction,  the  parts  are,  correspondingly,  indi 
vidually  insignificant.  Where  in  the  world  are  all  the  types  ? 
one  asks  one's  self  in  renewing  his  old  walks  and  desultory 


446  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

wanderings.  Where  is  the  New  York  counterpart  of  that 
astonishing  variety  of  types  which  makes  Paris  what  it  is 
morally  and  pictorially,  the  Paris  of  Balzac  as  well  as  the 
Paris  of  M.  Jean  Beraud.  Of  a  sudden  the  lack  of  nation 
ality  in  our  familiar  literature  and  art  becomes  luminously 
explicable.  One  perceives  why  Mr.  Howells  is  so  successful 
in  confining  himself  to  the  simplest,  broadest,  most  repre 
sentative  representatives,  why  Mr.  James  goes  abroad  in 
variably  for  his  mise-en-scene,  and  often  for  his  characters, 
why  Mr.  Reinhart  lives  in  Paris,  and  Mr.  Abbey  in  London. 
New  York  is  this  and  that,  it  is  incontestably  unlike  any 
other  great  city,  but  compared  with  Paris,  its  most  impres 
sive  trait  is  its  lack  of  that  organic  quality  which  results 
from  variety  of  types.  Thus  compared,  it  seems  to  have 
only  the  variety  of  individuals  which  results  in  monotony. 
It  is  the  difference  between  noise  and  music.  Pictorially, 
the  general  aspect  of  New  York  is  such  that  the  mind 
speedily  takes  refuge  in  insensitiveness.  Its  expansiveness 
seeks  exercise  in  other  directions — business,  dissipation, 
study,  sestheticism,  politics.  The  life  of  the  senses  is  no 
longer  possible.  This  is  why  one's  sense  for  art  is  so  stimu 
lated  by  going  abroad,  and  one's  sense  for  art  in  its  freest, 
frankest,  most  universal  and  least  special,  intense  and  ener 
vated  development,  is  especially  exhilarated  by  going  to 
Paris.  It  is  why,  too,  on  one's  return  one  can  note  the 
gradual  decline  of  his  sensitiveness,  his  severity — the  pro 
gressive  atrophy  of  a  sense  no  longer  called  into  exercise. 
"  I  had  no  conception  before,"  said  a  Chicago  broker  to  me 
one  day  in  Paris,  with  intelligent  eloquence,  "  of  a  finished 
city !  "  Chicago  undoubtedly  presents  a  greater  contrast 
to  Paris  than  does  New  York,  and  so,  perhaps,  better  pre 
pares  one  to  appreciate  the  Parisian  quality,  but  the  re 
turned  New  Yorker  cannot  fail  to  be  deeply  impressed  with 
the  finish,  the  organic  perfection,  the  elegance,  and  reserve 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS  447 

of  the  Paris  mirrored  in  his  memory.  Is  it  possible  that 
the  uniformity,  the  monotony  of  Paris  architecture,  the 
prose  note  in  Parisian  taste,  should  once  have  weighed  upon 
his  spirit?  Riding  once  on  the  top  of  a  Paris  tramway, 
betraying  an  understanding  of  English  by  reading  an  Ameri 
can  newspaper,  that  sub-consciousness  of  moral  isolation 
which  the  foreigner  feels  in  Paris  as  elsewhere,  was  sud 
denly  and  completely  destroyed  by  my  next  neighbor,  who 
remarked  with  contemptuous  conviction  and  a  Manhattan 
accent :  "  When  you've  seen  one  block  of  this  infernal  town 
you've  seen  it  all !  "  He  felt  sure  of  sympathy  in  advance. 
Probably  few  New  Yorkers  would  have  differed  with  him. 
The  universal  light  stone  and  brown  paint,  the  wide  side 
walks,  the  asphalt  pavement,  the  indefinitely  multipled 
kiosks,  the  prevalence  of  a  few  marked  kinds  of  vehicles, 
the  uniformed  workmen  and  workwomen,  the  infinite  re 
duplication,  in  a  word,  of  easily  recognized  types,  is  at  first 
mistaken  by  the  New  Yorker  for  that  dead  level  of  uni 
formity  which  is,  of  all  things  in  the  world,  the  most  tire 
some  to  him  in  his  own  city.  After  a  time,  however,  he 
begins  to  realize  three  important  facts :  In  the  first  place 
these  phenomena,  which  so  vividly  force  themselves  on  his 
notice  that  their  reduplication  strikes  him  more  than  their 
qualities,  are  nevertheless  of  a  quality  altogether  unex 
ampled  in  his  experience  for  fitness  and  agreeableness ;  in 
the  second  place,  they  are  details  of  a  whole,  members  of 
an  organism,  and  not  they,  but  the  city  which  they  compose, 
the  "  finished  city  "  of  the  acute  Chicagoan,  is  the  spectacle ; 
in  the  third  place  they  serve  as  a  background  for  the  finest 
group  of  monuments  in  the  world.  On  his  return  he  per 
ceives  these  things  with  a  melancholy  a  non  luccndo  lu- 
minousness.  The  dead  level  of  Murray  Hill  uniformity  he 
finds  the  most  agreeable  aspect  in  the  city. 

And  the  reason  is  that  Paris  has  habituated  him  to  the 


448  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

exquisite,  the  rational,  pleasure  to  be  derived  from  that 
organic  spectacle  a  "  finished  city,"  far  more  than  that  Mur 
ray  Hill  is  respectable  and  appropriate,  and  that  almost  any 
other  prospect,  except  in  spots  of  very  limited  area  which 
emphasize  the  surrounding  ugliness,  is  acutely  displeasing. 
This  latter  is  certainly  very  true.  We  have  long  frankly 
reproached  ourselves  with  having  no  art  commensurate  with 
our  distinction  in  other  activities,  resignedly  attributing  the 
lack  to  our  hitherto  necessary  material  preoccupation.  But 
what  we  are  really  accounting  for  in  this  way  is  our  lack 
of  Titians  and  Bramantes.  We  are  for  the  most  part  quite 
unconscious  of  the  character  of  the  American  aesthetic  sub 
stratum,  so  to  speak.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  do  far  better 
in  the  production  of  striking  artistic  personalities  than  we 
do  in  the  general  medium  of  taste  and  culture.  We  figure 
well  invariably  at  the  Salon.  At  home  the  artist  is  simply 
either  driven  in  upon  himself,  or  else  awarded  by  a  naive 
clientele,  an  eminence  so  far  out  of  perspective  as  to  result 
unfortunately  both  for  him  and  for  the  community.  He 
pleases  himself,  follows  his  own  bent,  and  prefers  salience 
to  conformability  for  his  work,  because  his  chief  aim  is  to 
make  an  effect.  This  is  especially  true  of  those  of  our 
architects  who  have  ideas.  But  these  are  the  exceptions, 
of  course,  and  the  general  aspect  of  the  city  is  characterized 
by  something  far  less  agreeable  than  mere  lack  of  symmetry ; 
it  is  characterized  mainly  by  an  all-pervading  bad  taste  in 
every  detail  into  which  the  element  of  art  enters  or  should 
enter — that  is  to  say,  nearly  everything  that  meets  the  eye. 

However,  on  the  other  hand,  Parisian  uniformity  may 
depress  exuberance,  it  is  the  condition  and  often  the  cause 
of  the  omnipresent  good  taste.  Not  only  is  it  true  that, 
as  Mr.  Hamerton  remarks,  "  in  the  better  quarters  of  the 
city  a  building  hardly  ever  rises  from  the  ground  unless  it 
has  been  designed  by  some  architect  who  knows  what  art 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS  449 

is,  and  endeavors  to  apply  it  to  little  things  as  well  as  great  " ; 
but  it  is  equally  true  that  the  national  sense  of  form  ex 
presses  itself  in  every  appurtenance  of  life  as  well  as  in  the 
masses  and  details  of  architecture.  In  New  York  our  noisy 
diversity  not  only  prevents  any  effect  of  ensemble  and  makes, 
as  I  say,  the  old  commonplace  brown  stone  regions  the  most 
reposeful  and  rational  prospects  of  the  city,  but  it  precludes 
also,  in  a  thousand  activities  and  aspects,  the  operation  of 
that  salutary  constraint  and  conformity  without  which  the 
most  acutely  sensitive  individuality  inevitably  declines  to  a 
lower  level  of  form  and  taste.  La  mode,  for  example,  seems 
scarcely  to  exist  at  all ;  or  at  any  rate  to  have  taken  refuge 
in  the  chimney-pot  hat  and  the  tournure.  The  dude,  it  is 
true,  has  been  developed  within  a  few  years,  but  his  dis 
tinguishing  trait  of  personal  extinction  has  had  much  less 
success  and  is  destined  to  a  much  shorter  life  than  his  appel 
lation,  which  has  wholly  lost  its  original  significance  in 
gaining  its  present  popularity.  Every  woman  one  meets  in 
the  street  has  a  different  bonnet.  Every  street  car  contains 
a  millinery  museum.  And  the  mass  of  them  may  be  judged 
after  the  circumstance  that  one  of  the  most  fashionable 
Fifth  Avenue  modistes  flaunts  a  sign  of  enduring  brass  an 
nouncing  "  English  Round  Hats  and  Bonnets."  The  enor 
mous  establishments  of  ready-made  men's  clothing  seem 
not  yet  to  have  made  their  destined  impression  in  the  direc 
tion  of  uniformity.  The  contrast  in  dress  of  the  working 
classes  with  those  of  Paris  is  as  conspicuously  unfortunate 
aesthetically,  as  politically  and  socially  it  may  be  significant ; 
ocularly,  it  is  a  substitution  of  a  cheap,  faded,  and  ragged 
imitation  of  bourgeois  costume  for  the  marvel  of  neatness 
and  propriety  which  composes  the  uniform  of  the  Parisian 
onvrier  and  ouvrlcre.  Broadway  below  Tenth  Street  is  a 
forest  of  signs  which  obscure  the  thoroughfare,  conceal  the 
buildings,  overhang  the  sidewalks,  and  exhibit  severally  and 


450  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

collectively  a  taste  in  harmony  with  the  Teutonic  and 
Semitic  enterprise  which,  almost  exclusively,  they  attest. 
The  shop-windows'  show,  which  is  one  of  the  great  spec 
tacles  of  Paris,  is  niggard  and  shabby ;  that  of  Philadelphia 
has  considerably  more  interest,  that  of  London  nearly  as 
much.  Our  clumsy  coinage  and  countrified  currency;  our 
eccentric  book-bindings ;  that  class  of  our  furniture  and 
interior  decoration  which  may  be  described  as  American 
rococo ;  that  multifariously  horrible  machinery  devised  for 
excluding  flies  from  houses  and  preventing  them  from  alight 
ing  on  dishes,  for  substituting  a  draught  of  air  for  stifling 
heat,  for  relieving  an  entire  population  from  that  surplusage 
of  old-fashioned  breeding  involved  in  shutting  doors,  for 
rolling  and  rattling  change  in  shops,  for  enabling  you  to 
"  put  only  the  exact  fare  in  the  box  " ;  the  racket  of  pneu 
matic  tubes,  of  telephones,  of  aerial  trains ;  the  practice 
of  reticulating  pretentious  facades  with  fire-escapes  in  lieu 
of  fire-proof  construction ;  the  vast  mass  of  our  nickel-plated 
paraphernalia ;  our  zinc  cemetery  monuments ;  our  comic 
valentines  and  serious  Christmas  cards,  and  grocery  labels, 
and  "  fancy  "  job-printing  and  theater  posters ;  our  con 
spicuous  cuspadores  and  our  conspicuous  need  of  more  of 
them ;  the  "  tone  "  of  many  articles  in  our  most  popular 
journals,  their  references  to  each  other,  their  illustrations; 
the  Sunday  panorama  of  shirt-sleeved  ease  and  the  week-day 
fatigue  costume  of  curl  papers  and  "  Mother  Hubbards  " 
general  in  some  quarters ;  our  sumptuous  new  bar-rooms, 
decorated  perhaps  on  the  principle  that  le  manuals  gout 
mene  au  crime — all  these  phenomena,  the  list  of  which  might 
be  indefinitely  extended,  are  so  many  witnesses  of  a  general 
taste,  public  and  private,  which  differs  cardinally  from  that 
prevalent  in  Paris. 

In  fine,  the  material  spectacle  of  New  York  is  such  that 
at  last,  with  some  anxiety,  one  turns  from  the  external  vile- 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS  451 

ness  of  every  prospect  to  seek  solace  in  the  pleasure  that 
man  affords.  But  even  after  the  wholesome  American  reac 
tion  has  set  in,  and  your  appetite  for  the  life  of  the  senses 
is  starved  into  indifference  for  what  begins  to  seem  to  you 
an  unworthy  ideal ;  after  you  are  patriotically  readjusted  and 
feel  once  more  the  elation  of  living  in  the  future  owing  to 
the  dearth  of  sustenance  in  the  present — you  are  still  at 
the  mercy  of  perceptions  too  keenly  sharpened  by  your  Paris 
sojourn  to  permit  blindness  to  the  fact  that  Paris  and  New 
York  contrast  as  strongly  in  moral  atmosphere  as  in  mate 
rial  aspect.  You  become  contemplative,  and  speculate  pen 
sively  as  to  the  character  and  quality  of  those  native  and 
normal  conditions,  those  Relations,  which  finally  you  have 
definitely  resumed.  What  is  it — that  vague  and  pervasive 
moral  contrast  which  the  American  feels  so  potently  on  his 
return  from  abroad?  How  can  we  define  that  apparently 
undefinable  difference  which  is  only  the  more  sensible  for 
being  so  elusive?  Book  after  book  has  been  written  about 
Europe  from  the  American  standpoint — about  America  from 
the  European  standpoint.  None  of  them  has  specified  what 
everyone  has  experienced.  The  spectacular  and  the  mate 
rial  contrasts  are  easily  enough  characterized,  and  it  is  only 
the  unreflecting  or  the  superficial  who  exaggerate  the  im 
portance  of  them.  We  are  by  no  means  at  the  mercy  of 
our  appreciation  of  Parisian  spectacle,  of  the  French  ma 
chinery  of  life.  We  miss  or  we  do  not  miss  the  Salon  Carre, 
the  view  of  the  south  transept  of  Notre  Dame  as  one  de 
scends  the  rue  St.  Jacques,  the  Theatre  Franqais,  the 
concerts,  the  Luxembourg  Gardens,  the  excursions  to  the 
score  of  charming  suburban  places,  the  library  at  the  corner, 
the  convenient  cheap  cab,  the  manners  of  the  people,  the 
quiet,  the  climate,  the  constant  entertainment  of  the  senses. 
We  have  in  general  too  much  work  to  do  to  waste  much 
time  in  regretting  these  things.  In  general,  work  is  by  natu- 


452  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

ral  selection  so  invariable  a  concomitant  of  our  unrivaled 
opportunity  to  work  profitably,  that  it  absorbs  our  energies 
so  far  as  this  palpable  sphere  is  concerned.  But  what  is  it 
that  throughout  the  hours  of  busiest  work  and  closest  ap 
plication,  as  well  as  in  the  preceding  and  following  moments 
of  leisure  and  the  occasional  intervals  of  relaxation,  makes 
everyone  vaguely  perceive  the  vast  moral  difference  between 
life  here  at  home  and  life  abroad — notably  life  in  France? 
What  is  the  subtle  influence  pervading  the  moral  atmosphere 
in  New  York,  which  so  markedly  distinguishes  what  we  call 
life  here  from  life  in  Paris  or  even  in  Pennedepie  ? 

It  is,  I  think,  distinctly  traceable  to  the  intense  individu 
alism  which  prevails  among  us.  Magnificent  results  have 
followed  our  devotion  to  this  force;  incontestably,  we  have 
spared  ourselves  both  the  acute  and  the  chronic  misery  for 
which  the  tyranny  of  society  over  its  constituent  parts  is 
directly  responsible.  We  have,  moreover,  in  this  way  not 
only  freed  ourselves  from  the  tyranny  of  despotism,  such  for 
example  as  is  exerted  socially  in  England  and  politically 
in  Russia,  but  we  have  undoubtedly  developed  a  larger 
number  of  self-reliant  and  potentially  capable  social  units 
than  even  a  democratic  system  like  that  of  France,  which 
sacrifices  the  unit  to  the  organism,  succeeds  in  producing. 
We  may  truly  say  that,  material  as  we  are  accused  of  being, 
we  turn  out  more  men  than  any  other  nationality.  And  if 
some  Frenchman  points  out  that  we  attach  an  esoteric  sense 
to  the  term  "  man,"  and  that  at  any  rate  our  men  are  not 
better  adapted  than  some  others  to  a  civilized  environment 
which  demands  other  qualities  than  honesty,  energy,  and 
intelligence,  we  may  be  quite  content  to  leave  him  his  objec 
tion,  and  to  prefer  what  seems  to  us  manliness,  to  civiliza 
tion  itself.  At  the  same  time  we  cannot  pretend  that  indi 
vidualism  has  done  everything  for  us  that  could  be  desired. 
In  giving  us  the  man  it  has  robbed  us  of  the  milieu.  Morally 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS  453 

speaking,  the  milieu  with  us  scarcely  exists.  Our  difference 
from  Europe  does  not  consist  in  the  difference  between  the 
European  milieu  and  ours ;  it  consists  in  the  fact  that,  com 
paratively  speaking  of  course,  we  have  no  milieu.  If  we 
are  individually  developed,  we  are  also  individually  isolated 
to  a  degree  elsewhere  unknown.  Politically  we  have  parties 
who,  in  Cicero's  phrase,  "  think  the  same  things  concerning 
the  republic/'  but  concerning  very  little  else  are  we  agreed 
in  any  mass  of  any  moment.  The  number  of  our  sauces 
is  growing,  but  there  is  no  corresponding  diminution  in  the 
number  of  our  religions.  We  have  no  communities.  Our 
villages  even  are  apt,  rather,  to  be  aggregations.  Politics 
aside,  there  is  hardly  an  American  view  of  any  phenomenon 
or  class  of  phenomena.  Every  one  of  us  likes,  reads,  sees, 
does  what  he  chooses.  Often  dissimilarity  is  affected  as 
adding  piquancy  of  paradox.  The  judgment  of  the  ages,  the 
consensus  of  mankind,  exercise  no  tyranny  over  the  indi 
vidual  will.  Do  you  believe  in  this  or  that,  do  you  like 
this  or  that,  are  questions  which,  concerning  the  most  funda 
mental  matters,  nevertheless  form  the  staple  of  conversa 
tion  in  many  circles.  We  live  all  of  us  apparently  in  a  divine 
state  of  flux.  The  question  asked  at  dinner  by  a  lady  in 
a  neighboring  city  of  a  literary  stranger,  "  What  do  you 
think  of  Shakespeare  ?  "  is  not  exaggeratedly  peculiar.  We 
all  think  differently  of  Shakespeare,  of  Cromwell,  of  Titian, 
of  Browning,  of  George  Washington.  Concerning  matters 
as  to  which  we  must  be  fundamentally  disinterested,  we 
permit  ourselves  not  only  prejudice  but  passion.  At  the  most 
we  have  here  and  there  groups  of  personal  acquaintance 
only,  whose  members  are  in  accord  in  regard  to  some  one 
thing,  and  quickly  crystallize  and  precipitate  aj:  the  mention 
of  something  that  is  really  a  corollary  of  the  force  which 
unites  them.  The  efforts  that  have  been  made  in  New  York, 
within  the  past  twenty  years,  to  establish  various  special 


454  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

milieus,  so  to  speak,  have  been  pathetic  in  their  number  and 
resultlessness.  Efforts  of  this  sort  are  of  course  doomed 
to  failure,  because  the  essential  trait  of  the  milieu  is  spon 
taneous  existence,  but  their  failure  discloses  the  mutual  re 
pulsion  which  keeps  the  molecules  of  our  society  from 
uniting.  How  can  it  be  otherwise  when  life  is  so  specu 
lative,  so  experimental,  so  wholly  dependent  on  the  personal 
force  and  idiosyncrasies  of  the  individual?  How  shall  we 
accept  any  general  verdict  pronounced  by  persons  of  no 
more  authority  than  ourselves,  and  arrived  at  by  processes 
in  which  we  are  equally  expert?  We  have  so  little  con 
sensus  as  to  anything,  because  we  dread  the  loss  of  per 
sonality  involved  in  submitting  to  conventions,  and  because 
personality  operates  centrifugally  alone.  We  make  excep 
tions  in  favor  of  such  matters  as  the  Copernican  system  and 
the  greatness  of  our  own  future.  There  are  things  which 
we  take  on  the  credit  of  the  consensus  of  authorities,  for 
which  we  may  not  have  all  the  proofs  at  hand.  But  as  to 
conventions  of  all  sorts,  our  attitude  is  apt  to  be  one  of 
suspicion  and  uncertainty.  Mark  Twain,  for  example,  first 
won  his  way  to  the  popular  American  heart  by  exposing 
the  humbugs  of  the  Cinque-cento.  Specifically  the  most 
teachable  of  people,  nervously  eager  for  information,  Ameri 
cans  are  nevertheless  wholly  distrustful  of  generalizations 
made  by  anyone  else,  and  little  disposed  to  receive  blindly 
formularies  and  classifications  of  phenomena  as  to  which 
they  have  had  no  experience.  And  of  experience  we  have 
necessarily  had,  except  politically,  less  than  any  civilized 
people  in  the  world. 

We  are  infinitely  more  at  home  amid  universal  mobility. 
We  want  to  act,  to  exert  ourselves,  to  be,  as  we  imagine, 
nearer  to  nature.  We  have  our  tastes  in  painting  as  in 
confectionery.  Some  of  us  prefer  Tintoretto  to  Rem 
brandt,  as  we  do  chocolate  to  cocoanut.  In  respect  of  taste 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS  455 

it  would  be  impossible  for  the  gloomiest  skeptic  to  deny  that 
this  is  an  exceedingly  free  country.  "  I  don't  know  anything 
about  the  subject  (whatever  the  subject  may -be),  but  I 
know  what  I  like,"  is  a  remark  which  is  heard  on  every 
hand,  and  which  witnesses  the  sturdiness  of  our  struggle 
against  the  tyranny  of  conventions  and  the  indomitable 
nature  of  our  independent  spirit.  In  criticism  the  individual 
spirit  fairly  runs  a-muck ;  it  takes  its  lack  of  concurrence  as 
credentials  of  impartiality  often.  In  constructive  art  every 
one  is  occupied  less  with  nature  than  with  the  point  of  view. 
Mr.  Howells  himself  displays  more  delight  in  his  naturalistic 
attitude  than  zest  in  his  execution,  which,  compared  with 
that  of  the  French  naturalists,  is  in  general  faint-hearted 
enough.  Everyone  writes,  paints,  models,  exclusively  the 
point  of  view.  Fidelity  in  following  out  nature's  sugges 
tions,  in  depicting  the  emotions  nature  arouses,  a  sympa 
thetic  submission  to  nature's  sentiment,  absorption  into 
nature's  moods  and  subtle  enfoldings,  are  extremely  rare. 
The  artist's  eye  is  fixed  on  the  treatment.  He  is  "  creative  " 
by  main  strength.  He  is  penetrated  with  a  desire  to  get 
away  from  "  the  same  old  thing,"  to  "  take  it  "  in  a  new  way, 
to  draw  attention  to  himself,  to  shine.  One  would  say  that 
every  American  nowadays  who  handles  a  brush  or  designs 
a  building,  was  stimulated  by  the  secret  ambition  of  found 
ing  a  school.  We  have  in  art  thus,  with  a  vengeance,  that 
personal  element  which  is  indeed  its  savor,  but  which 
it  is  fatal  to  make  its  substance.  We  have  it  still 
more  conspicuously  in  life.  What  do  you  think  of  him, 
or  her?  is  the  first  question  asked  after  every  introduction. 
Of  every  new  individual  we  meet  we  form  instantly  some 
personal  impression.  The  criticism  of  character  is  nearly 
the  one  disinterested  activity  in  which  we  have  become 
expert.  We  have  for  this  a  peculiar  gift,  apparently,  which 
we  share  with  gypsies  and  money-lenders,  and  other  people 


456  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

in  whom  the  social  instinct  is  chiefly  latent.  Our  gossip 
takes  on  the  character  of  personal  judgments  rather  than 
of  tittle-tattle.  It  concerns  not  what  So-and-So  has  done, 
but  what  kind  of  a  person  So-and-So  is.  It  would  hardly 
be  too  much  to  say  that  So-and-So  never  leaves  a  group 
of  which  he  is  not  an  intimate  without  being  immediately, 
impartially  but  fundamentally,  discussed.  To  a  degree  not 
at  all  suspected  by  the  author  of  the  phrase,  he  "  leaves 
his  character  "  with  them  on  quitting  any  assemblage  of  his 
acquaintance. 

The  great  difficulty  with  our  individuality  and  independ 
ence  is  that  differentiation  begins  so  soon  and  stops  so  far 
short  of  real  importance.  In  no  department  of  life  has 
the  law  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest,  that  principle  in  virtue 
of  whose  operation  societies  become  distinguished  and  ad 
mirable,  had  time  to  work.  Our  social  characteristics  are 
inventions,  discoveries,  not  survival.  Nothing  with  us  has 
passed  into  the  stage  of  instinct.  And  for  this  reason  some 
of  our  "  best  people,"  some  of  the  most  "  thoughtful  "  among 
us,  have  less  of  that  quality  best  characterized  as  social 
maturity  than  a  Parisian  washerwoman  or  concierge.  Cen 
turies  of  sifting,  ages  of  gravitation  toward  harmony  and 
homogeneity,  have  resulted  for  the  French  in  a  delightful 
immunity  from  the  necessity  of  "  proving  all  things  "  re 
morselessly  laid  on  every  individual  of  our  society.  Very 
many  matters,  at  any  rate,  which  to  the  French  are  matters 
of  course,  our  self-respect  pledges  us  to  a  personal  examina 
tion  of.  The  idea  of  sparing  ourselves  trouble  in  thinking 
occurs  to  us  far  more  rarely  than  to  other  peoples.  We 
have  certainly  an  insufficient  notion  of  the  superior  results 
reached  by  economy  and  system  in  this  respect. 

In  one  of  Mr.  Henry  James's  cleverest  sketches,  Lady 
Barberina,  the  English  heroine  marries  an  American  and 
comes  to  live  in  New  York.  She  finds  it  dull.  She  is  home- 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS  457 

sick  without  quite  knowing  why.  Mr.  James  is  at  his  best 
in  exhibiting  at  once  the  intensity  of  her  disgust  and  the 
intangibility  of  its  provocation.  We  are  not  all  like  "  Lady 
Barb."  We  do  not  all  like  London,  whose  materialism  is 
only  more  splendid,  not  less  uncompromising  than  our  own ; 
but  we  cannot  help  perceiving  that  what  that  unfortunate 
lady  missed  in  New  York  was  the  milieu — an  environment 
sufficiently  developed  to  permit  spontaneity  and  free  play  of 
thought  and  feeling,  and  a  certain  domination  of  shifting 
merit  by  fixed  relations  which  keeps  one's  mind  off  that 
disagreeable  subject  of  contemplation,  one's  self.  Everyone 
seems  acutely  self-conscious;  and  the  self-consciousness  of 
the  unit  is  fatal,  of  course,  to  the  composure  of  the  ensemble. 
The  number  of  people  intently  minding  their  P's  and  Q's, 
reforming  their  orthoepy,  practicing  new  discoveries  in  eti 
quette,  making  over  their  names,  and  in  general  exhibiting 
that  activity  of  the  amateur  known  as  "  going  through  the 
motions  "  to  the  end  of  bringing  themselves  up,  as  it  were, 
is  very  noticeable  in  contrast  with  French  oblivion  to  this 
kind  of  personal  exertion.  Even  our  simplicity  is  apt  to  be 
simplesse.  And  the  conscientiousness  in  educating  others 
displayed  by  those  who  are  so  fortunate  as  to  have  reached 
perfection  nearly  enough  to  permit  relaxation  in  self- 
improvement,  is  only  equaled  by  the  avidity  in  acquisitive 
ness  displayed  by  the  learners  themselves.  Meantime  the 
composure  born  of  equality,  as  well  as  that  springing  from 
unconsciousness,  suffers.  Our  society  is  a  kind  of  Jacob's 
ladder,  to  maintain  equilibrium  upon  which  requires  an 
amount  of  effort  on  the  part  of  the  personally  estimable 
gymnasts  perpetually  ascending  and  descending,  in  the  high 
est  degree  hostile  to  spontaneity,  to  serenity,  and  stability. 

Naturally,  thus,  everyone  is  personally  preoccupied  to  a 
degree  unknown  in  France.  And  it  is  not  necessary  that  this 
preoccupation  should  concern  any  side  of  that  multifarious 


458  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

monster  we  know  as  "  business."  It  may  relate  strictly 
to  the  paradox  of  seeking  employment  for  leisure.  Even  the 
latter  is  a  terribly  conscious  proceeding.  We  go  about  it 
with  a  mental  deliberateness  singularly  in  contrast  with  our 
physical  precipitancy.  But  it  is  mainly  "  business,"  perhaps, 
that  accentuates  our  individualism.  The  condition  of 
desceuvrcment  is  positively  disreputable.  It  arouses  the  sus 
picion  of  acquaintance  and  the  anxiety  of  friends.  Occupa 
tion  to  the  end  of  money-getting  is  our  normal  condition, 
any  variation  from  which  demands  explanation,  as  little 
likely  to  be  entirely  honorable.  Such  occupation  is,  as  I 
said,  the  inevitable  sequence  of  the  opportunity  for  it,  and 
is  the  wiser  and  more  dignified  because  of  its  necessity  to 
the  end  of  securing  independence.  What  the  Frenchman 
can  secure  merely  by  the  exercise  of  economy  is  with  us  only 
the  reward  of  energy  and  enterprise  in  acquisition — so  com 
paratively  speculative  and  hazardous  is  the  condition  of  our 
business.  And  whereas  with  us  money  is  far  harder  to 
keep,  and  is  moreover  something  which  it  is  far  harder  to  be 
without  than  is  the  case  in  France,  the  ends  of  self-respect, 
freedom  from  mortification,  and  getting  the  most  out  of  life, 
demand  that  we  should  take  constant  advantage  of  the  fact 
that  it  is  easier  to  get.  Consequently  everyone  who  is,  as  we 
say,  worth  anything,  is  with  us  adjusted  to  the  prodigious 
dynamic  condition  which  characterizes  our  existence.  And 
such  occupation  is  tremendously  absorbing.  Our  opportu 
nity  is  fatally  handicapped  by  this  remorseless  necessity 
of  embracing  it.  It  yields  us  fruit  after  its  kind,  but  it 
rigorously  excludes  us  from  tasting  any  other.  Everyone 
is  engaged  in  preparing  the  working  drawings  of  his  own 
fortune.  There  is  no  co-operation  possible,  because  compe 
tition  is  the  life  of  enterprise. 

In   the   resultant   manners   the   city   illustrates   Carlyle's 
"  anarchy  plus  the  constable."     Never  was  the  struggle  for 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS  459 

existence  more  palpable,  more  naked,  and  more  unpictorial. 
"  It  is  the  art  of  mankind  to  polish  the  world/'  says  Thoreau 
somewhere,  "  and  everyone  who  works  is  scrubbing  in  some 
part/'  Everyone  certainly  is  here  at  work,  yet  was  there 
ever  such  scrubbing  with  so  little  resultant  polish?  The 
disproportion  would  be  tragic  if  it  were  not  grotesque. 
Amid  all  "  the  hurry  and  rush  of  life  along  the  sidewalks," 
as  the  newspapers  say,  one  might  surely  expect  to  find  the 
unexpected.  The  spectacle  ought  certainly  to  have  the 
interest  of  picturesqueness  which  is  inherent  in  the  fortui 
tous.  Unhappily,  though  there  is  hurry  and  rush  enough, 
it  is  the  bustle  of  business,  not  the  dynamics  of  what  is 
properly  to  be  called  life.  The  elements  of  the  picture  lack 
dignity — so  completely  as  to  leave  the  ensemble  quite  with 
out  accent.  More  incidents  in  the  drama  of  real  life  will 
happen  before  midnight  to  the  individuals  who  compose  the 
orderly  Boulevard  procession  in  Paris  than  those  of  its 
chaotic  Broadway  counterpart  will  experience  in  a  month. 
The  latter  are  not  really  more  impressive  because  they  are 
apparently  all  running  errands  and  include  no  flaneurs. 
The  flaneur  would  fare  ill  should  anything  draw  him  into 
the  stream.  Everything  being  adjusted  to  the  motive  of 
looking  out  for  one's  self,  any  of  the  sidewalk  civility  and 
mutual  interest  which  obtain  in  Paris  would  throw  the  entire 
machine  out  of  gear.  Whoever  is  not  in  a  hurry  is  in  the 
way.  A  man  running  after  an  omnibus  at  the  Madeleine 
would  come  into  collision  with  fewer  people  and  cause  less 
disturbance  than  one  who  should  stop  on  Fourteenth  Street 
to  apologize  for  an  inadvertent  jostle,  or  to  give  a  lady  any 
surplusage  of  passing  room.  He  would  be  less  ridiculous. 
A  friend  recently  returned  from  Paris  told  me  that,  on 
several  street  occasions,  his  involuntary  "  Excuse  me !  "  had 
been  mistaken  for  a  salutation  and  answered  by  a  "  How 
do  you  do  ?  "  and  a  stare  of  speculation.  Apologies  of  this 


460  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

class  sound  to  us,  perhaps,  like  a  subtle  and  deprecatory 
impeachment  of  our  large  tolerance  and  universal  good 
nature. 

In  this  way  our  undoubted  self-respect  undoubtedly  loses 
something  of  its  bloom.  We  may  prefer  being  jammed 
into  street-cars  and  pressed  against  the  platform  rails  of 
the  elevated  road  to  the  tedious  waiting  at  Paris  'bus  sta 
tions — to  mention  one  of  the  perennial  and  principal  points 
of  contrast  which  monopolize  the  thoughts  of  the  average 
American  sojourner  in  the  French  capital.  But  it  is  terribly 
vulgarizing.  The  contact  and  pressure  are  abominable.  To 
a  Parisian  the  daily  experience  in  this  respect  of  those  of  our 
women  who  have  no  carriages  of  their  own,  would  seem 
as  singular  as  the  latter  would  find  the  Oriental  habit  of 
regarding  the  face  as  more  important  than  other  portions 
of  the  female  person  to  keep  concealed.  But  neither  men 
nor  women  can  persist  in  blushing  at  the  intimacy  of  rude 
ness  to  which  our  crowding  subjects  them  in  common. 
The  only  resource  is  in  blunted  sensibility.  And  the 
manners  thus  negatively  produced  we  do  not  quite  appre 
ciate  in  their  enormity  because  the  edge  of  our  appreciation 
is  thus  necessarily  dulled.  The  conductor  scarcely  ceases 
whistling  to  poke  you  for  your  fare.  Other  whistlers  ap 
parently  go  on  forever.  Loud  talking  follows  naturally 
from  the  impossibility  of  personal  seclusion  in  the  presence 
of  others.  Our  Sundays  have  lost  secular  decorum  very 
much  in  proportion  as  they  have  lost  Puritan  observance. 
If  we  have  nothing  quite  comparable  with  a  London  bank 
holiday,  or  with  the  conduct  of  the  popular  cohorts  of  the 
Epsom  army ;  if  only  in  "  political  picnics  ''  and  the  excur 
sions  o'f  "  gangs  "  of  "  toughs  "  we  illustrate  absolute  bar 
barism,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that,  from  Central  Park  to 
Coney  Island,  our  people  exhibit  a  conception  of  the  fitting 
employment  of  periodical  leisure  which  would  seem  indeco- 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS  461 

rous  to  a  crowd  of  Belleville  ouvriers.  If  we  have  not  the 
cad,  we  certainly  possess  in  abundance  the  species  "  hood 
lum,"  which,  though  morally  far  more  refreshing,  is  yet 
aesthetically  intolerable;  and  the  hoodlum  is  nearly  as  rare 
in  Paris  as  the  cad.  Owing  to  his  presence  and  to  the  atmos 
phere  in  which  he  thrives,  we  find  ourselves,  in  spite  of  the 
most  determined  democratic  convictions,  shunning  crowds 
whenever  it  is  possible  to  shun  them.  The  most  robust  of 
us  easily  get  into  the  frame  of  mind  of  a  Boston  young 
woman,  to  whom  the  Champs-Elysees  looked  like  a  rail 
way  station,  and  who  wished  the  people  would  get  up  from 
the  benches  and  go  home.  Our  life  becomes  a  life  of  the 
interior;  wherefore,  in  spite  of  a  climate  that  permits  walks 
abroad,  we  confine  out-door  existence  to  Newport  lawns 
and  camps  in  the  Adirondacks;  and  whence  proceeds  that 
carelessness  of  the  exterior  which  subordinates  architecture 
to  "  household  art,"  and  makes  of  our  streets  such  mere 
thoroughfares  lined  with  "  homes." 

The  manners  one  encounters  in  street  and  shop  in  Paris 
are,  it  is  well  known,  very  different  from  our  own.  But 
no  praise  of  them  ever  quite  prepares  an  American  for 
their  agreeableness  and  simplicity.  We  are  always  agree 
ably  surprised  at  the  absence  of  elaborate  manner  which 
eulogists  of  French  manners  in  general  omit  to  note;  and 
indeed  it  is  an  extremely  elusive  quality.  Nothing  is  further 
removed  from  that  intrusion  of  the  national  gemuthlichkeit 
into  so  impersonal  a  matter  as  affairs,  large  or  small,  which 
to  an  occasional  sense  makes  the  occasional  German  manner 
enjoyable.  Nothing  is  farther  from  the  obsequiousness  of 
the  London  shopman,  which  rather  dazes  the  American  than 
pleases  him.  Nothing,  on  the  other  hand,  is  farther  from 
our  own  bald  dispatch.  With  us  every  shopper  expects, 
or  at  any  rate  is  prepared  for,  obstruction  rather  than 
facilitation  on  the  seller's  side.  The  drygoods  counter,  espe- 


462  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

cially  when  the  attendant  is  of  the  gentler  sex,  is  a  kind 
of  chevaux-de-jrise.  The  retail  atmosphere  is  charged  with 
an  affectation  of  unconsciousness ;  not  only  is  every  transac 
tion  impersonal,  it  is  mechanical ;  ere  long  it  must  become 
automatic.  In  many  cases  there  is  to  be  encountered  a 
certain  defiant  attitude  to  the  last  degree  unhappy  in  its 
effects  on  the  manners  involved — a  certain  self-assertion 
which  begs  the  question,  else  unmooted,  of  social  equality, 
with  the  result  for  the  time  being  of  the  most  unsocial 
relation  probably  existing  among  men.  Perfect  personal 
equality  for  the  time  being  invariably  exists  between  cus 
tomer  and  tradesman  in  France ;  the  man  or  woman  who 
serves  you  is  first  of  all  a  fellow-creature ;  a  shop,  to  be 
sure,  is  not  a  conversazione,  but  if  you  are  in  a  loquacious 
or  inquisitive  mood  you  will  be  deemed  neither  frivolous  nor 
familiar — nor  yet  an  inanimate  obstacle  to  the  flow  of  the 
most  important  as  well  as  the  most  impetuous  of  the  currents 
of  life. 

Certainly,  in  New  York,  we  are  too  vain  of  our  bustle 
to  realize  how  mannerless  and  motiveless  it  is.  The  essence 
of  life  is  movement,  but  so  is  the  essence  of  epilepsy.  More 
over  the  life  of  the  New  Yorker  who  chases  street-cars,  eats 
at  a  lunch  counter,  drinks  what  will  "  take  hold  1J  quickly 
at  a  bar  he  can  quit  instantly,  reads  only  the  head-lines  of 
his  newspaper,  keeps  abreast  of  the  intellectual  movement 
by  inspecting  the  display  of  the  Elevated  Railway  news 
stands  while  he  fumes  at  having  to  wait  two  minutes  for 
his  train,  hastily  buys  his  tardy  ticket  of  sidewalk  specu 
lators,  and  leaves  the  theater  as  if  it  were  on  fire — the  life 
of  such  a  man  is,  notwithstanding  all  its  futile  activity, 
varied  by  long  spaces  of  absolute  mental  stagnation,  of 
moral  coma.  Not  only  is  our  hurry  not  decorous,  not  de 
cent  ;  it  is  not  real  activity,  it  is  as  little  as  possible  like  the 
animated  existence  of  Paris,  where  the  moral  nature  is  kept 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS  463 

in  constant  operation,  intense  or  not  as  the  case  may  be, 
in  spite  of  the  external  and  material  tranquillity.  Owing 
to  this  lack  of  a  real,  a  rational  activity,  our  individual  civili 
zation,  which  seems  when  successful  a  scramble,  and  when 
unlucky  a  sauve  qui  pent,  is,  morally  as  well  as  spectacu 
larly,  not  ill  described  in  so  far  as  its  external  aspect  is 
concerned  by  the  epithet  Hat.  Enervation  seems  to  menace 
those  whom  hypersesthesia  spares. 

"  We  go  to  Europe  to  become  Americanized,"  says  Emer 
son,  but  France  Americanizes  us  less  in  this  sense  than  any 
other  country  of  Europe,  and  perhaps  Emerson  was  not 
thinking  so  much  of  her  democratic  development  into  social 
order  and  efficiency  as  of  the  less  American  and  more  feudal 
European  influences,  which  do  indeed,  while  we  are  subject 
to  them,  intensify  our  affection  for1  our  own  institutions, 
our  confidence  in  our  own  outlook.  One  must  admit  that 
in  France  (which  nowadays  follows  our  ideal  of  liberty  per 
haps  as  closely  as  we  do  hers  of  equality  and  fraternity, 
and  where  consequently  our  political  notions  receive  few 
shocks)  not  only  is  the  life  of  the  senses  more  agreeable 
than  it  i.s  with  us,  but  the  mutual  relations  of  men  are  more 
felicitous  also.  And  alas !  Americans  who  have  savored 
these  sweets  cannot  avail  themselves  of  the  implication  con 
tained  in  Emerson's  further  words — words  which  approach 
nearer  to  petulance  than  anything  in  his  urbane  and  placid 
utterances — "  those  who  prefer  London  or  Paris  to  America 
may  be  spared  to  return  to  those  capitals."  "  II  faut  vivre, 
combattre,  et  finir  avec  les  siens,"  says  Doudan,  and  no  law 
is  more  inexorable.  The  fruits  of  foreign  gardens  are,  how 
ever  delectable,  enchanted  for  us ;  we  may  not  touch  them  ; 
and  to  pass  our  lives  in  covetous  inspection  of  them  is  as 
barren  a  performance  as  may  be  imagined.  For  this  reason 
the  question  "  Should  you  like  better  to  live  here  or 


464  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

abroad  ?  "  is  as  little  practical  as  it  is  frequent.  The  empty 
life  of  the  "  foreign  colonies  ''  in  Paris  is  its  sufficient  answer. 
Not  only  do  most  of  us  have  to  stay  at  home,  but  for  every 
one  except  the  inconsiderable  few  who  can  better  do  abroad 
the  work  they  have  to  do,  and  except  those  essentially  un- 
American  waifs  who  can  contrive  no  work  for  themselves, 
life  abroad  is  not  only  less  profitable  but  less  pleasant.  The 
American  endeavoring  to  acclimatize  himself  in  Paris  hardly 
needs  to  have  cited  to  him  the  words  of  Epictetus :  "  Man, 
thou  hast  forgotten  thine  object;  thy  journey  was  not  to 
this,  but  through  this  " — he  is  sure  before  long  to  become 
dismally  persuaded  of  their  truth.  More  speedily  than  else 
where  perhaps,  he  finds  out  in  Paris  the  truth  of  Car- 
lyle's  assurance :  "  It  is,  after  all,  the  one  unhappiness  of 
a  man.  That  he  cannot  work ;  that  he  cannot  get  his  destiny 
as  a  man  fulfilled."  For  the  work  which  insures  the  felicity 
of  the  French  life  of  the  senses  and  of  French  human  rela 
tions  he  cannot  share ;  and,  thus,  the  question  of  the  relative 
attractiveness  of  French  and  American  life — of  Paris  and 
New  York — becomes  the  idle  and  purely  speculative  question 
as  to  whether  one  would  like  to  change  his  personal  and 
national  identity. 

And  this  an  American  may  permit  himself  the  chauvinism 
of  believing  a  less  rational  contradiction  of  instinct  in  him 
self  than  it  would  be  in  the  case  of  anyone  else.  And  for 
this  reason :  that  in  those  elements  of  life  which  tend  to 
the  development  and  perfection  of  the  individual  soul  in 
the  work  of  fulfilling  its  mysterious  destiny,  American  char 
acter  and  American  conditions  are  especially  rich.  Bun- 
yan's  genius  exhibits  its  characteristic  felicity  in  giving  the 
name  of  Hopeful  to  the  successor  of  that  Faithful  who  per 
ished  in  the  town  of  Vanity.  It  would  be  a  mark  of  that 
loose  complacency  in  which  we  are  too  often  offenders,  to 
associate  the  scene  of  Faithful's  martyrdom  with  the  Europe 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS  465 

from  which  definitively  we  set  out  afresh  a  century  ago; 
but  it  is  impossible  not  to  recognize  that  on  our  forward 
journey  to  the  celestial  country  of  national  and  individual 
success,  our  conspicuous  inspiration  and  constant  comforter 
is  that  hope  whose  cheering  ministrations  the  "  weary 
Titans  "  of  Europe  enjoy  in  far  narrower  measure.  Living 
in  the  future  has  an  indisputably  tonic  effect  upon  the  moral 
sinews,  and  contributes  an  exhilaration  to  the  spirit  which 
no  sense  of  attainment  and  achieved  success  can  give.  We 
are  after  all  the  true  idealists  of  the  world.  Material  as  are 
the  details  of  our  preoccupation,  our  sub-consciousness  is 
sustained  by  a  general  aspiration  that  is  none  the  less  heroic 
for  being,  perhaps,  somewhat  naif  as  well.  The  times  and 
moods  when  one's  energy  is  excited,  when  something  occurs 
in  the  continuous  drama  of  life  to  bring  sharply  into  relief 
its  vivid  interest  and  one's  own  intimate  share  therein,  when 
nature  seems  infinitely  more  real  than  the  societies  she 
includes,  when  the  missionary,  the  pioneer,  the  constructive 
spirit  is  aroused,  are  far  more  frequent  with  us  than  with 
other  peoples.  Our  intense  individualism  happily  modified 
by  our  equality,  our  constant,  active,  multiform  struggle 
with  the  environment,  do  at  least,  as  I  said,  produce  men; 
and  if  we  use  the  term  in  an  esoteric  sense  we  at  least  know 
its  significance.  Of  our  riches  in  this  respect  New  York 
alone  certainly  gives  no  exaggerated  idea — however  it  may 
otherwise  epitomize  and  typify  our  national  traits.  A  walk 
on  Pennsylvania  Avenue ;  a  drive  among  the  "  homes  ''  of 
Buffalo  or  Detroit — or  a  dozen  other  true  centers  of  com 
munal  life  which  have  a  concrete  impressiveness  that  for 
the  most  part  only  great  capitals  in  Europe  possess ;  a  tour 
of  college  commencements  in  scores  of  spots  consecrated 
to  the  exaltation  of  the  permanent  over  the  evanescent ;  con 
tact  in  any  wise  with  the  prodigious  amount  of  right  feeling 
manifested  in  a  hundred  ways  throughout  a  country  whose 


466  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

prosperity  stimulates  generous  impulse,  or  with  the  number 
of  "  good  fellows  "  of  large,  shrewd,  humorous  views  of  life, 
critical  perhaps  rather  than  constructive,  but  at  all  events 
untouched  by  cynicism,  perfectly  competent  and  admirably 
confident,  with  a  livelier  interest  in  everything  within  their 
range  of  vision  than  can  be  felt  by  anyone  mainly  occupied 
with  sensuous  satisfaction,  saved  from  boredom  by  a  robust 
imperviousness,  ready  to  begin  life  over  again  after  every 
reverse  with  unenfeebled  spirit,  and  finding,  in  the  working 
out  of  their  own  personal  salvation  according  to  the  gospel 
of  necessity,  and  opportunity,  that  joy  which  the  pursuit 
of  pleasure  misses — experiences  of  every  kind,  in  fine,  that 
familiarize  us  with  what  is  especially  American  in  our 
civilization,  are  agreeable  as  no  foreign  experiences  can  be, 
because  they  are  above  all  others  animating  and  sustain 
ing.  Life  in  America  has  for  everyone,  in  proportion  to  his 
seriousness,  the  zest  that  accompanies  the  "  advance  on 
Chaos  and  the  Dark."  Meantime,  one's  last  word  about  the 
America  emphasized  by  contrast  with  the  organic  and 
solidaire  society  of  France,  is  that,  for  insuring  order  and 
efficiency  to  the  lines  of  this  advance,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  conceive  too  gravely  the  utility  of  observing  attentively 
the  work  in  the  modern  world  of  the  only  other  great  nation 
that  follows  the  democratic  standard,  and  is  perennially 
prepared  to  make  sacrifices  for  ideas. 


[From  French  Traits,  by  W.  C.  Brownell.    Copyright,  1888,  1889,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons.] 


THE  TYRANNY  OF  THINGS 
EDWARD  SANDFORD  MARTIN 

A  TRAVELER  newly  returned  from  the  Pacific  Ocean  tells 
pleasant  stories  of  the  Patagonians.  As  the  steamer  he 
was  in  was  passing  through  Magellan's  Straits  some  natives 
came  out  to  her  in  boats.  They  wore  no  clothes  at  all, 
though  there  was  snow  in  the  air.  A  baby  that  came  along 
with  them  made  some  demonstration  that  displeased  its 
mother,  who  took  it  by  the  foot,  as  Thetis  took  Achilles, 
and  soused  it  over  the  side  of  the  boat  into  the  cold  sea- 
water.  When  she  pulled  it  in,  it  lay  a  moment  whimpering 
in  the-  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  then  curled  up  and  went  to 
sleep.  The  missionaries  there  have  tried  to  teach  the  natives 
to  wear  clothes,  and  to  sleep  in  huts ;  but,  so  far,  the  traveler 
says,  with  very  limited  success.  The  most  shelter  a  Pata- 
gonian  can  endure  is  a  little  heap  of  rocks  or  a  log  to  the 
windward  of  him ;  as  for  clothes,  he  despises  them,  and  he 
is  indifferent  to  ornament. 

To  many  of  us,  groaning  under  the  oppression  of  modern 
conveniences,  it  seems  lamentably  meddlesome  to  under 
mine  the  simplicity  of  such  people,  and  enervate  them  with 
the  luxuries  of  civilization.  To  be  able  to  sleep  out-o- 
doors,  and  go  naked,  and  take  sea-baths  on  wintry  days  with 
impunity,  would  seem  a  most  alluring  emancipation.  No 
rent  to  pay,  no  tailor,  no  plumber,  no  newspaper  to  be  read 
on  pain  of  getting  behind  the  times ;  no  regularity  in  any 
thing,  not  even  meals ;  nothing  to  do  except  to  find  food, 
and  no  expense  for  undertakers  or  physicians,  even  if  we 
fail ; what  a  fine,  untrammeled  life  it  would  be !  It  takes  occa- 

467 


468  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

sional  contact  with  such  people  as  the  Patagonians  to  keep 
us  in  mind  that  civilization  is  the  mere  cultivation  of  our 
wants,  and  that  the  higher  it  is  the  more  our  necessities  are 
multiplied,  until,  if  we  are  rich  enough,  we  get  enervated  by 
luxury,  and  the  young  men  come  in  and  carry  us  out. 

We  want  so  many,  many  things,  it  seems  a  pity  that  those 
simple  Patagonians  could  not  send  missionaries  to  us  to 
show  us  how  to  do  without.  The  comforts  of  life,  at  the 
rate  they  are  increasing,  bid  fair  to  bury  us  soon,  as  Tarpeia 
was  buried  under  the  shields  of  her  friends  the  Sabines. 
Mr.  Hamerton,  in  speaking  of  the  increase  of  comfort 
in  England,  groans  at  the  "  trying  strain  of  expense  to  which 
our  extremely  high  standard  of  living  subjects  all  except 
the  rich."  It  makes  each  individual  of  us  very  costly  to 
keep,  and  constantly  tempts  people  to  concentrate  on  the 
maintenance  of  fewer  individuals  means  that  would  in  sim 
pler  times  be  divided  among  many.  "  My  grandfather," 
said  a  modern  the  other  day,  "  left  $200,000.  He  was  con 
sidered  a  rich  man  in  those  days ;  but,  dear  me !  he  supported 
four  or  five  families — all  his  needy  relations  and  all  my 
grandmother's/'  Think  of  an  income  of  $10,000  a  year 
being  equal  to  such  a  strain,  and  providing  suitably  for  a 
rich  man's  large  family  in  the  bargain !  It  wouldn't  go  so 
far  now,  and  yet  most  of  the  reasonable  necessaries  of  life 
cost  less  to-day  than  they  did  two  generations  ago.  The 
difference  is  that  we  need  so  very  many  comforts  that  were 
not  invented  in  our  grandfather's  time. 

There  is  a  hospital,  in  a  city  large  enough  to  keep  a  large 
hospital  busy,  that  is  in  straits  for  money.  Its  income  from 
contributions  last  year  was  larger  by  nearly  a  third  than  its 
income  ten  years  ago,  but  its  expenses  were  nearly  double 
its  income.  There  were  some  satisfactory  reasons  for  the 
discrepancy — the  city  had  grown,  the  number  of  patients  had 
increased,  extraordinary  repairs  had  been  made — but  at 


THE  TYRANNY  OF  THINGS  469 

the  bottom  a  very  large  expenditure  seemed  to  be  due  to 
the  struggle  of  the  managers  to  keep  the  institution  up  to 
modern  standards.  The  patients  are  better  cared  for  than 
they  used  to  be ;  the  nurses  are  better  taught  and  more  skill 
ful  ;  "  conveniences  "  have  been  greatly  multiplied ;  the  heat 
ing  and  cooking  and  laundry  work  is  all  done  in  the  best 
manner  with  the  most  approved  apparatus ;  the  plumbing  is 
as  safe  as  sanitary  engineering  can  make  it ;  the  appliances 
for  antiseptic  surgery  are  fit  for  a  fight  for  life ;  there  are 
detached  buildings  for  contagious  diseases,  and  an  out-pa 
tient  department,  and  the  whole  concern  is  administered  with 
wisdom  and  economy.  There  is  only  one  distressing  circum 
stance  about  this  excellent  charity,  and  that  is  that  its  ex 
penses  exceed  its  income.  And  yet  its  managers  have  not  been 
extravagant:  they  have  only  done  what  the  enlightened  ex 
perience  of  the  day  has  considered  to  be  necessary.  If  the 
hospital  has  to  shut  down  and  the  patients  must  be  turned 
out,  at  least  the  receiver  will  find  a  well-appointed  institu 
tion  of  which  the  managers  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed. 

The  trouble  seems  to  be  with  very  many  of  us,  in  con 
temporary  private  life  as  well  as  in  institutions,  that  the 
enlightened  experience  of  the  day  invents  more  necessaries 
than  we  can  get  the  money  to  pay  for.  Our  opulent  friends 
are  constantly  demonstrating  to  us  by  example  how  indis 
pensably  convenient  the  modern  necessaries  are,  and  we  keep 
having  them  until  we  either  exceed  our  incomes  or  miss 
the  higher  concerns  of  life  in  the  effort  to  maintain  a  com 
plete  outfit  of  its  creature  comforts. 

And  the  saddest  part  of  all  is  that  it  is  in  such  great  meas 
ure  an  American  development.  We  Americans  keep  invent 
ing  new  necessaries,  and  the  people  of  the  effete  monarchies 
gradually  adopt  such  of  them  as  they  can  afford.  When 
we  go  abroad  we  growl  about  the  inconveniences  of  Euro 
pean  life — the  absence  of  gas  in  bedrooms,  the  scarcity  and 


470  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

sluggishness  of  elevators,  the  primitive  nature  of  the  plumb 
ing,  and  a  long  list  of  other  things  without  which  life  seems 
to  press  unreasonably  upon  our  endurance.  Nevertheless, 
if  the  res  angusta  domi  get  straiter  than  usual,  we  are 
always  liable  to  send  our  families  across  the  water  to  spend 
a  season  in  the  practice  of  economy  in  some  land  where  it 
costs  less  to  live. 

Of  course  it  all  belongs  to  Progress,  and  no  one  is  quite 
willing  to  have  it  stop,  but  it  does  a  comfortable  sufferer 
good  to  get  his  head  out  of  his  conveniences  sometimes  and 
complain. 

There  was  a  story  in  the  newspapers  the  other  day  about 
a  Massachusetts  minister  who  resigned  his  charge  because 
someone  had  given  his  parish  a  fine  house,  and  his  par 
ishioners  wanted  him  to  live  in  it.  His  salary  was  too  small, 
he  said,  to  admit  of  his  living  in  a  big  house,  and  he  would 
not  do  it.  He  was  even  deaf  to  the  proposal  that  he  should 
share  the  proposed  tenement  with  the  sewing  societies  and 
clubs  of  his  church,  and  when  the  matter  came  to  a  serious 
issue,  he  relinquished  his  charge  and  sought  a  new  field  of 
usefulness.  The  situation  was  an  amusing  instance  of  the 
embarrassment  of  riches.  Let  no  one  to  whom  restricted 
quarters  may  have  grown  irksome,  and  who  covets  larger 
dimensions  of  shelter,  be  too  hasty  in  deciding  that  the  min 
ister  was  wrong.  Did  you  ever  see  the  house  that  Haw 
thorne  lived  in  at  Lenox?  Did  you  ever  see  Emerson's 
house  at  Concord?  They  are  good  houses  for  Americans 
to  know  and  remember.  They  permitted  thought. 

A  big  house  is  one  of  the  greediest  cormorants  which  can 
light  upon  a  little  income.  Backs  may  go  threadbare  and 
stomachs  may  worry  along  on  indifferent  filling,  but  a  house 
will  have  things,  though  its  occupants  go  without.  It  is 
rarely  complete,  and  constantly  tempts  the  imagination  to 
flights  in  brick  and  dreams  in  lath  and  plaster.  It  develops 


THE  TYRANNY  OF  THINGS  471 

annual  thirsts  for  paint  and  wall-paper,  at  least,  if  not 
for  marble  and  wood-carving.  The  plumbing  in  it  must  be 
kept  in  order  on  pain  of  death.  Whatever  price  is  put  on 
coal,  it  has  to  be  heated  in  winter;  and  if  it  is  rural  or 
suburban,  the  grass  about  it  must  be  cut  even  though 
funerals  in  the  family  have  to  be  put  off  for  the  mowing. 
If  the  tenants  are  not  rich  enough  to  hire  people  to  keep 
their  house  clean,  they  must  do  it  themselves,  for  there  is 
no  excuse  that  will  pass  among  housekeepers  for  a  dirty 
house.  The  master  of  a  house  too  big  for  him  may  expect 
to  spend  the  leisure  which  might  be  made  intellectually  or 
spiritually  profitable,  in  acquiring  and  putting  into  practice 
fag  ends  of  the  arts  of  the  plumber,  the  bell-hanger,  the 
locksmith,  the  gasfitter,  and  the  carpenter.  Presently  he  will 
know  how  to  do  everything  that  can  be  done  in  the  house, 
except  enjoy  himself.  He  will  learn  about  taxes,  too,  and 
water-rates,  and  how  such  abominations  as  sewers  or  new 
pavements  are  always  liable  to  accrue  at  his  expense.  As 
for  the  mistress,  she  will  be  a  slave  to  carpets  and  curtains, 
wall-paper,  painters,  and  women  who  come  in  by  the  day 
to  clean.  She  will  be  lucky  if  she  gets  a  chance  to  say  her 
prayers,  and  thrice  and  four  times  happy  when  she  can 
read  a  book  or  visit  with  her  friends.  To  live  in  a  big 
house  may  be  a  luxury,  provided  that  one  has  a  full  set  of 
money  and  an  enthusiastic  housekeeper  in  one's  family ;  but 
to  scrimp  in  a  big  house  is  a  miserable  business.  Yet  such 
is  human  folly,  that  for  a  man  to  refuse  to  live  in  a  house 
because  it  is  too  big  for  him,  is  such  an  exceptional  exhibi 
tion  of  sense  that  it  becomes  the  favorite  paragraph  of  a  day 
in  the  newspapers. 

An  ideal  of  earthly  comfort,  so  common  that  every  reader 
must  have  seen  it,  is  to  get  a  house  so  big  that  it  is  burden 
some  to  maintain,  and  fill  it  up  so  full  of  jimcracks  that 
it  is  a  constant  occupation  to  keep  it  in  order.  Then,  when 


472  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

the  expense  of  living  in  it  is  so  great  that  you  can't  afford 
to  go  away  and  rest  from  the  burden  of  it,  the  situation  is 
complete  and  boarding-houses  and  cemeteries  begin  to  yawn 
for  you.  How  many  Americans,  do  you  suppose,  out  of  the 
droves  that  flock  annually  to  Europe,  are  running  away  from 
oppressive  houses? 

When  nature  undertakes  to  provide  a  house,  it  fits  the 
occupant.  Animals  which  build  by  instinct  build  only  what 
they  need,  but  man's  building  instinct,  if  it  gets  a  chance 
to  spread  itself  at  all,  is  boundless,  just  as  all  his  instincts 
are.  For  it  is  man's  peculiarity  that  nature  has  filled  him 
with  impulses  to  do  things,  and  left  it  to  his  discretion  when 
to  stop.  She  never  tells  him  when  he  has  finished.  And 
perhaps  we  ought  not  to  be  surprised  that  in  so  many  cases 
it  happens  that  he  doesn't  know,  but  just  goes  ahead  as  long 
as  the  materials  last. 

If  another  man  tries  to  oppress  him,  he  understands  that 
and  is  ready  to  fight  to  death  and  sacrifice  all  he  has,  rather 
than  submit ;  but  the  tyranny  of  things  is  so  subtle,  so 
gradual  in  its  approach,  and  comes  so  masked  with  seeming 
benefits,  that  it  has  him  hopelessly  bound  before  he  sus 
pects  his  fetters.  He  says  from  day  to  day,  "  I  will  add  thus 
to  my  house ;"  "  I  will  have  one  or  two  more  horses ;"  "  I  will 
make  a  little  greenhouse  in  my  garden ;"  "  I  will  allow  my 
self  the  luxury  of  another  hired  man ;"  and  so  he  goes  on  hav 
ing  things  and  imagining  that  he  is  richer  for  them.  Pres 
ently  he  begins  to  realize  that  it  is  the  things  that  own  him. 
He  has  piled  them  up  on  his  shoulders,  and  there  they  sit  like 
Sindbad's  Old  Man  and  drive  him;  and  it  becomes  a  daily 
question  whether  he  can  keep  his  trembling  legs  or  not. 

All  of  which  is  not  meant  to  prove  that  property  has  no 
real  value,  or  to  rebut  Charles  Lamb's  scornful  denial  that, 
enough  is  as  good  as  a  feast.  It  is  not  meant  to  apply  to  the 
rich,  who  can  have  things  comfortably,  if  they  are  philo- 


THE  TYRANNY  OF  THINGS  473 

sophical ;  but  to  us  poor,  who  have  constant  need  to  remind 
ourselves  that  where  the  verbs  to  have  and  to  be  cannot 
both  be  completely  inflected,  the  verb  to  be  is  the  one  that 
best  repays  concentration. 

Perhaps  we  would  not  be  so  prone  to  swamp  ourselves 
with  luxuries  and  vain  possessions  that  we  cannot  afford, 
if  it  were  not  for  our  deep-lying  propensity  to  associate  with 
people  who  are  better  off  than  we  are.  It  is  usually  the 
sight  of  their  appliances  that  upsets  our  little  stock  of  sense, 
and  lures  us  into  an  improvident  competition. 

There  is  a  proverb  of  Solomon's  which  prophesies  finan 
cial  wreck  or  ultimate  misfortune  of  some  sort  to  people 
who  make  gifts  to  the  rich.  Though  not  expressly  stated, 
it  is  somehow  implied  that  the  proverb  is  intended  not  as  a 
warning  to  the  rich  themselves,  who  may  doubtless  exchange 
presents  with  impunity,  but  for  persons  whose  incomes  rank 
somewhere  between  "  moderate  circumstances  "  and  desti 
tution.  That  such  persons  should  need  to  be  warned  not 
to  spend  their  substance  on  the  rich  seems  odd,  but  when 
Solomon  was  busied  with  precept  he  could  usually  be 
trusted  not  to  waste  either  words  or  wisdom.  Poor  people 
are  constantly  spending  themselves  upon  the  rich,  not  only 
because  they  like  them,  but  often  from  an  instinctive  con 
viction  that  such  expenditure  is  well  invested.  I  wonder 
sometimes  whether  this  is  true. 

To  associate  with  the  rich  seems  pleasant  and  profitable. 
They  are  apt  to  be  agreeable  and  well  informed,  and  it  is 
good  to  play  with  them  and  enjoy  the  usufruct  of  all  their 
pleasant  apparatus;  but,  of  course,  you  can  neither  hope 
nor  wish  to  get  anything  for  nothing.  Of  the  cost  of  the 
practice,  the  expenditure  of  time  still  seems  to  be  the  item 
that  is  most  serious.  It  takes  a  great  deal  of  time  to 
cultivate  the  rich  successfully.  If  they  are  working  people 
their  time  is  so  much  more  valuable  than  yours,  that  when 


474  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

you  visit  with  them  it  is  apt  to  be  your  time  that  is  sacri 
ficed.  If  they  are  not  working  people  it  is  worse  yet.  Their 
special  outings,  when  they  want  your  company,  always  come 
when  you  cannot  get  away  from  work  except  at  some  great 
sacrifice,  which,  under  the  stress  of  temptation,  you  are  too 
apt  to  make.  Their  pleasuring  is  on  so  large  a  scale  that 
you  cannot  make  it  fit  your  times  or  necessities.  You  can't 
go  yachting  for  half  a  day,  nor  will  fifty  dollars  take  you 
far  on  the  way  to  shoot  big  game  in  Manitoba.  You  simply 
cannot  play  with  them  when  they  play,  because  you  cannot 
reach;  and  when  they  work  you  cannot  play  with  them,  be 
cause  their  time  then  is  worth  so  much  a  minute  that  you 
cannot  bear  to  waste  it.  And  you  cannot  play  with  them 
when  you  are  working  yourself  and  they  are  inactively  at 
leisure,  because,  cheap  as  your  time  is,  you  can't  spare  it. 

Charming  and  likeable  as  they  are,  and  good  to  know,  it 
must  be  admitted  that  there  is  a  superior  convenience  about 
associating  most  of  the  time  with  people  who  want  to  do 
about  what  we  want  to  do  at  about  the  same  time,  and 
whose  abilities  to  do  what  they  wish  approximate  to  ours. 
It  is  not  so  much  a  matter  of  persons  as  of  times  and  means. 
You  cannot  make  your  opportunities  concur  with  the  oppor 
tunities  of  people  whose  incomes  are  ten  times  greater  than 
yours.  When  you  play  together  it  is  at  a  sacrifice,  and 
one  which  you  have  to  make.  Solomon  was  right.  To 
associate  with  very  rich  people  involves  sacrifices.  You 
cannot  even  be  rich  yourself  without  expense,  and  you  may 
just  as  well  give  over  trying.  Count  it,  then,  among  the 
costs  of  a  considerable  income  that  in  enlarging  the  range 
of  your  sports  it  inevitably  contracts  the  circle  of  those  who 
will  find  it  profitable  to  share  them. 


[From    Windfalls    of    Observation,   by    Edward    Sandford    Martin. 
Copyright,    1893,  by   Charles   Scribner's  Sons.] 


I 
FREE  TRADE  VS.  PROTECTION  IN  LITERATURE 

SAMUEL  McCnoRD  CROTHERS 

IN  the  old-fashioned  text-book  we  used  to  be  told  that 
the  branch  of  learning  that  was  treated  was  at  once  an  art 
and  a  science.  Literature  is  much  more  than  that.  It  is 
an  art,  a  science,  a  profession,  a  trade,  and  an  accident. 
The  literature  that  is  of  lasting  value  is  an  accident.  It  is 
something  that  happens.  After  it  has  happened,  the  his 
torical  critics  busy  themselves  in  explaining  it.  But  they 
are  not  able  to  predict  the  next  stroke  of  genius. 

Shelley  defines  poetry  as  the  record  of  "  the  best  and 
happiest  moments  of  the  best  and  happiest  minds."  When 
we  are  fortunate  enough  to  happen  in  upon  an  author  at 
one  of  these  happy  moments,  then,  as  the  country  newspaper 
would  say,  "  a  very  enjoyable  time  was  had/'  After  we 
have  said  all  that  can  be  said  about  art  and  craftsmanship, 
we  put  our  hopes  upon  a  happy  chance.  Literature  cannot 
be  standardized.  We  never  know  how  the  most  painstaking 
work  may  turn  out.  The  most  that  can  be  said  of  the 
literary  life  is  what  Sancho  Panza  said  of  the  profession 
of  knight-errantry :  "  There  is  something  delightful  in  going 
about  in  expectation  of  accidents." 

After  a  meeting  in  behalf  of  Social  Justice,  an  eager, 
distraught  young  man  met  me,  in  the  streets  of  Boston, 
and  asked : 

"You  believe  in  the  principle  of  equality?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Don't  I  then  have  just  as  much  right  to  be  a  genius  as 
Shakespeare  had  ?  " 

475 


476  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

"  Yes." 

"Then  why  ain't  I?" 

I  had  to  confess  that  I  didn't  know. 

It  is  with  this  chastened  sense  of  our  limitations  that 
we  meet  for  any  organized  attempt  at  the  encouragement 
of  literary  productivity.  Matthew  Arnold's  favorite  bit  of 
irreverence  in  which  he  seemed  to  find  endless  enjoyment 
was  in  twitting  the  unfortunate  Bishop  who  had  said  that 
"  something  ought  to  be  done  "  for  the  Holy  Trinity.  It 
was  a  business-like  proposition  that  involved  a  spiritual 
incongruity. 

A  confusion  of  values  is  likely  to  take  place  when  we 
try  to  "  do  something "  for  American  Literature.  It  is 
an  object  that  appeals  to  the  uplifter  who  is  anxious  to  "  get 
results."  But  the  difficulty  is  that  if  a  piece  of  writing  is 
literature,  it  does  not  need  to  be  uplifted.  If  it  is  not  litera 
ture,  it  is  likely  to  be  so  heavy  that  you  can't  lift  it.  We 
have  been  told  that  a  man  by  taking  thought  cannot  add  a 
cubit  to  his  stature.  It  is  certainly  true  that  we  cannot  add 
many  cubits  to  our  literary  stature.  If  we  could  we  should 
all  be  giants. 

When  literary  men  discourse  with  one  another  about 
their  art,  they  often  seem  to  labor  under  a  weight  of  re 
sponsibility  which  a  friendly  outsider  would  seek  to  lighten. 
They  are  under  the  impression  that  they  have  left  undone 
many  things  which  they  ought  to  have  done,  and  that  the 
Public  blames  them  for  their  manifold  transgressions. 

That  Great  American  Novel  ought  to  have  been  written 
long  ago.  There  ought  to  be  more  local  color  and  less  imi 
tation  of  European  models.  There  ought  to  have  been  more 
plain  speaking  to  demonstrate  that  we  are  not  squeamish 
and  are  not  tied  to  the  apron  strings  of  Mrs.  Grundy.  There 
ought  to  be  a  literary  center  ard  those  who  are  at  it  ought 
to  live  up  to  it. 


FREE  TRADE  vs.  PROTECTION  IN  LITERATURE      477 

In  all  this  it  is  assumed  that  contemporary  writers  can 
control  the  literary  situation. 

Let  me  comfort  the  over-strained  consciences  of  the  mem 
bers  of  the  writing  fraternity.  Your  responsibility  is  not 
nearly  so  great  as  you  imagine. 

Literature  differs  from  the  other  arts  in  the  relation  in 
which  the  producer  stands  to  the  consumer.  Literature  can 
never  be  made  one  of  the4  protected  industries.  In  the 
Drama  the  living  actor  has  a  complete  monopoly.  One 
might  express  a  preference  for  Garrick  or  Booth,  but  if 
he  goes  to  the  theater  he  must  take  what  is  set  before  him. 
The  monopoly  of  the  singer  is  not  quite  so  complete  as  it 
once  was.  But  until  canned  music  is  improved,  most  people 
will  prefer  to  get  theirs  fresh.  In  painting  and  in  sculpture 
there  is  more  or  less  competition  with  the  work  of  other 
ages.  Yet  even  here  there  is  a  measure  of  natural  protec 
tion.  The  old  masters  may  be  admired,  but  they  are 
expensive.  The  living  artist  can  control  a  certain  market 
of  his  own. 

There  is  also  a  great  opportunity  for  the  artist  and  his 
friends  to  exert  pressure.  When  you  go  to  an  exhibition 
of  new  paintings,  you  are  not  a  free  agent.  You  are  aware 
that  the  artist  or  his  friends  may  be  in  the  vicinity  to  ob 
serve  how  First  Citizen  and  Second  Citizen  enjoy  the  mas 
terpiece.  Conscious  of  this  espionage,  you  endeavor  to  look 
pleased.  You  observe  a  picture  which  outrages  your  ideas 
of  the  possible.  You  mildly  remark  to  a  bystander  that 
you  have  never  seen  anything  like  that  before. 

"  Probably  not,"  he  replies,  "  it  is  not  a  picture 
of  any  outward  scene,  it  represents  the  artist's  state  of 
mind." 

"  O,"  you  reply,  "  I  understand.  He  is  making  an  ex 
hibition  of  himself." 

It  is  all  so  personal  that  you  do  not  feel  like  carrying  the 


478  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

investigation  further.  You  take  what  is  set  before  you  and 
ask  no  questions. 

But  with  a  book  the  relation  to  the  producer  is  alto 
gether  different.  You  go  into  your  library  and  shut  the 
door,  and  you  have  the  same  sense  of  intellectual  freedom 
that  you  have  when  you  go  into  the  polling  booth  and 'mark 
your  Australian  ballot.  You  are  a  sovereign  citizen.  No 
body  can  know  what  you  are  reading  unless  you  choose  to 
tell.  You  snap  your  fingers  at  the  critics.  In  the  "  tu 
multuous  privacy  "  of  print  you  enjoy  what  you  find  enjoy 
able,  and  let  the  rest  go. 

Your  mind  is  a  free  port.  There  are  no  customs  house 
officers  to  examine  the  cargoes  that  are  unladen.  The  book 
which  has  just  come  from  the  press  has  no  advantage  over 
the  book  that  is  a  century  old.  In  the  matter  of  legibility 
the  old  volume  may  be  preferable,  and  its  price  is  less. 
Whatever  choice  you  make  is  in  the  face  of  the  free  com 
petition  of  all  the  ages.  Literature  is  the  timeless  art. 

Clever  writers  who  start  fashions  in  the  literary  world 
should  take  account  of  this  secrecy  of  the  reader's  position. 
It  is  easy  enough  to  start  a  fashion,  the  difficulty  is  to 
get  people  to  follow  it.  Few  people  will  follow  a  fashion 
except  when  other  people  are  looking  at  them.  When  they 
are  alone  they  relapse  into  something  which  they  enjoy 
and  which  they  find  comfortable. 

The  ultimate  consumer  of  literature  is  therefore  inclined 
to  take  a  philosophical  view  of  the  contentions  among  lit 
erary  people,  about  what  seem  to  them  the  violent  fluctua 
tions  of  taste.  These  fashions  come  and  go,  but  the  quiet 
reader  is  undisturbed.  There  are  enough  good  books  already 
printed  to  last  his  life-time.  Aware  of  this,  he  is  not 
alarmed  by  the  cries  of  the  "  calamity  howlers  "  who  predict 
a  famine. 

From  a  purely  commercial  viewpoint,  this  competition 


FREE  TRADE  vs.  PROTECTION  IN  LITERATURE      479 

with  writers  of  all  generations  is  disconcerting.  But  I  do 
not  see  that  anything  can  be  done  to  prevent  it.  The  prin 
ciple  of  protection  fails.  Trades-unionism  offers  no  remedy. 
What  if  all  the  living  authors  should  join  in  a  general  strike  ! 
We  tremble  to  think  of  the  army  of  strike-breakers  that 
would  rush  in  from  all  centuries. 

From  the  literary  viewpoint,  however,  this  free  competi 
tion  is  very  stimulating  and  even  exciting.  To  hold  our 
own  under  free  trade  conditions,  we  must  not  put  all  our 
thought  on  increasing  the  output.  In  order  to  meet  the 
free  competition  to  which  we  are  exposed,  we  must  improve 
the  quality  of  our  work.  Perhaps  that  may  be  good  for  us. 


DANTE  AND  THE  BOWERY 
THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

IT  is  the  conventional  thing  to  praise  Dante  because  he 
of  set  purpose  "  used  the  language  of  the  market-place," 
so  as  to  be  understanded  of  the  common  people ;  but  we  do 
not  in  practice  either  admire  or  understand  a  man  who 
writes  in  the  language  of  our  own  market-place.  It  must 
be  the  Florentine  market-place  of  the  thirteenth  century — 
not  Fulton  Market  of  to-day.  What  infinite  use  Dante 
would  have  made  of  the  Bowery !  Of  course,  he  could 
have  done  it  only  because  not  merely  he  himself,  the  great 
poet,  but  his  audience  also,  would  have  accepted  it  as  natu 
ral.  The  nineteenth  century  was  more  apt  than  the  thir 
teenth  to  boast  of  itself  as  being  the  greatest  of  the  centuries ; 
but,  save  as  regards  purely  material  objects,  ranging  from 
locomotives  to  bank  buildings,  it  did  not  wholly  believe  in  its 
boasting.  A  nineteenth-century  poet,  when  trying  to  illus 
trate  some  point  he  was  making,  obviously  felt  uncom 
fortable  in  mentioning  nineteenth-century  heroes  if  he  also 
referred  to  those  of  classic  times,  lest  he  should  be  suspected 
of  instituting  comparisons  between  them.  A  thirteenth- 
century  poet  was  not  in  the  least  troubled  by  any  such 
misgivings,  and  quite  simply  illustrated  his  point  by  allu 
sions  to  any  character  in  history  or  romance,  ancient  or 
contemporary,  that  happened  to  occur  to  him. 

Of  all  the  poets  of  the  nineteenth  century,  Walt  Whit 
man  was  the  only  one  who  dared  use  the  Bowery — that  is, 
use  anything  that  was  striking  and  vividly  typical  of  the 

480 


DANTE  AND  THE  BOWERY  481 

humanity  around  him — as  Dante  used  the  ordinary  humanity 
of  his  day;  and  even  Whitman  was  not  quite  natural  in 
doing  so,  for  he  always  felt  that  he  was  defying  the 
conventions  and  prejudices  of  his  neighbors,  and  his  self- 
consciousness  made  him  a  little  defiant.  Dante  was  not 
defiant  of  conventions :  the  conventions  of  his  day  did  not 
forbid  him  to  use  human  nature  just  as  he  saw  it,  no  less 
than  human  nature  as  he  read  about  it.  The  Bowery  is  one 
of  the  great  highways  of  humanity,  a  highway  of  seething 
life,  of  varied  interest,  of  fun,  of  work,  of  sordid  and  ter 
rible  tragedy;  and  it  is  haunted  by  demons  as  evil  as  any 
that  stalk  through  the  pages  of  the  Inferno.  But  no  man 
of  Dante's  art  and  with  Dante's  soul  would  write  of  it 
nowadays ;  and  he  would  hardly  be  understood  if  he  did. 
Whitman  wrote  of  homely  things  and  every-day  men,  and 
of  their  greatness,  but  his  art  was  not  equal  to  his  power  and 
his  purpose;  and,  even  as  it  was,  he,  the  poet,  by  set  inten 
tion,  of  the  democracy,  is  not  known  to  the  people  as  widely 
as  he  should  be  known;  and  it  is  only  the  few — the  men 
like  Edward  FitzGerald,  John  Burroughs,  and  W.  E.  Hen 
ley — who  prize  him  as  he  ought  to  be  prized. 

Nowadays,  at  the  outset  of  the  twentieth  century,  culti 
vated  people  would  ridicule  the  poet  who  illustrated 
fundamental  truths,  as  Dante  did  six  hundred  years  ago, 
by  examples  drawn  alike  from  human  nature  as  he  saw  it 
around  him  and  from  human  nature  as  he  read  of  it.  I 
suppose  that  this  must  be  partly  because  we  are  so  self- 
conscious  as  always  to  read  a  comparison  into  any  illustra 
tion,  forgetting  the  fact  that  no  comparison  is  implied 
between  two  men,  in  the  sense  of  estimating  their  relative 
greatness  or  importance,  when  the  career  of  each  of  them 
is  chosen  merely  to  illustrate  some  given  quality  that  both 
possess.  It  is  also  probably  due  to  the  fact  that  an  age 
in  which  the  critical  faculty  is  greatly  developed  often  tends 


482  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

to  develop  a  certain  querulous  inability  to  understand  the 
fundamental  truths  which  less  critical  ages  accept  as  a 
matter  of  course.  To  such  critics  it  seems  improper,  and 
indeed  ludicrous,  to  illustrate  human  nature  by  examples 
chosen  alike  from  the  Brooklyn  Navy  Yard  or  Castle  Gar 
den  and  the  Piraeus,  alike  from  Tammany  and  from  the 
Roman  mob  organized  by  the  foes  or  friends  of  Csesar.  To 
Dante  such  feeling  itself  would  have  been  inexplicable. 

Dante  dealt  with  those  tremendous  qualities  of  the  human 
soul  which  dwarf  all  differences  in  outward  and  visible 
form  and  station,  and  therefore  he  illustrated  what  he  meant 
by  any  example  that  seemed  to  him  apt.  Only  the  great 
names  of  antiquity  had  been  handed  down,  and  so,  when 
he  spoke  of  pride  or  violence  or  flattery,  and  wished  to 
illustrate  his  thesis  by  an  appeal  to  the  past,  he  could  speak 
only  of  great  and  prominent  characters;  but  in  the  present 
of  his  day  most  of  the  men  he  knew,  or  knew  of,  were 
naturally  people  of  no  permanent  importance — just  as  is 
the  case  in  the  present  of  our  own  day.  Yet  the  passions 
of  these  men  were  the  same  as  those  of  the  heroes  of  old, 
godlike  or  demoniac ;  and  so  he  unhesitatingly  used  his  con 
temporaries,  or  his  immediate  predecessors,  to  illustrate  his 
points,  without  regard  to  their  prominence  or  lack  of 
prominence.  He  was  not  concerned  with  the  differences 
in  their  fortunes  and  careers,  with  their  heroic  proportions 
or  lack  of  such  proportions ;  he  was  a  mystic  whose  imagi 
nation  soared  so  high  and  whose  thoughts  plumbed  so 
deeply  the  far  depths  of  our  being  that  he  was  also  quite 
simply  a  realist ;  for  the  eternal  mysteries  were  ever  before 
his  mind,  and,  compared  to  them,  the  differences  between 
the  careers  of  the  mighty  masters  of  mankind  and  the 
careers  of  even  very  humble  people  seemed  trivial.  If  we 
translate  his  comparisons  into  the  terms  of  our  day,  we 
are  apt  to  feel  amused  over  this  trait  of  his,  until  we  go 


DANTE  AND  THE  BOWERY  483 

a  little  deeper  and  understand  that  we  are  ourselves  to 
blame,  because  we  have  lost  the  faculty  simply  and  natu 
rally  to  recognize  that  the  essential  traits  of  humanity  are 
shown  alike  by  big  men  and  by  little  men,  in  the  lives  that 
are  now  being  lived  and  in  those  that  are  long  ended. 

Probably  no  two  characters  in  Dante  impress  the  ordi 
nary  reader  more  than  Farinata  and  Capaneus :  the  man 
who  raises  himself  waist-high  from  out  his  burning  sepul- 
cher,  unshaken  by  torment,  and  the  man  who,  with  scornful 
disdain,  refuses  to  brush  from  his  body  the  falling  flames ; 
the  great  souls — magnanimous,  Dante  calls  them — whom  no 
torture,  no  disaster,  no  failure  of  the  most  absolute  kind 
could  force  to  yield  or  to  bow  before  the  dread  powers 
that  had  mastered  them.  Dante  has  created  these  men,  has 
made  them  permanent  additions  to  the  great  figures  of  the 
world ;  they  are  imaginary  only  in  the  sense  that  Achilles 
and  Ulysses  are  imaginary — that  is,  they  are  now  as  real 
as  the  figures  of  any  men  that  ever  lived.  One  of  them 
was  a  mythical  hero  in  a  mythical  feat,  the  other  a  second- 
rate  faction  leader  in  a  faction-ridden  Italian  city  of  the  thir 
teenth  century,  whose  deeds  have  not  the  slightest  im 
portance  aside  from  what  Dante's  mention  gives.  Yet  the 
two  men  are  mentioned  as  naturally  as  Alexander  and 
Caesar  are  mentioned.  Evidently  they  are  dwelt  upon  at 
length  because  Dante  felt  it  his  duty  to  express  a  peculiar 
horror  for  that  fierce  pride  which  could  defy  its  overlord, 
while  at  the  same  time,  and  perhaps  unwillingly,  he  could 
not  conceal  a  certain  shuddering  admiration  for  the  lofty 
courage  on  which  this  evil  pride  was  based. 

The  point  I  wish  to  make  is  the  simplicity  with  which 
Dante  illustrated  one  of  the  principles  on  which  he  lays  most 
stress,  by  the  example  of  a  man  who  was  of  consequence 
only  in  the  history  of  the  parochial  .politics  of  Florence. 
Farinata  will  now  live  forever  as  a  symbol  of  the  soul; 


484  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

yet  as  an  historical  figure  he  is  dwarfed  beside  any  one 
of  hundreds  of  the  leaders  in  our  own  Revolution  and  Civil 
War.  Tom  Benton,  of  Missouri,  and  Jefferson  Davis,  of 
Mississippi,  were  opposed  to  one  another  with  a  bitterness 
which  surpassed  that  which  rived  asunder  Guelph  from 
Ghibellin,  or  black  Guelph  from  white  Guelph.  They  played 
mighty  parts  in  a  tragedy  more  tremendous  than  any  which 
any  mediaeval  city  ever  witnessed  or  could  have  witnessed. 
Each  possessed  an  iron  will  and  undaunted  courage,  physical 
and  moral;  each  led  a  life  of  varied  interest  and  danger, 
and  exercised  a  power  not  possible  in  the  career  of  the 
Florentine.  One,  the  champion  of  the  Union,  fought  for  his 
principles  as  unyieldingly  as  the  other  fought  for  what  he 
deemed  right  in  trying  to  break  up  the  Union.  Each  was 
a  colossal  figure.  Each,  when  the  forces  against  which 
he  fought  overcame  him — for  in  his  latter  years  Benton  saw 
the  cause  of  disunion  triumph  in  Missouri,  just  as  Jefferson 
Davis  lived  to  see  the  cause  of  union  triumph  in  the  Nation 
- — fronted  an  adverse  fate  with  the  frowning  defiance,  the 
high  heart,  and  the  stubborn  will  which  Dante  has  com 
memorated  for  all  time  in  his  hero  who  "  held  hell  in  great 
scorn."  Yet  a  modern  poet  who  endeavored  to  illustrate 
such  a  point  by  reference  to  Benton  and  Davis  would  be 
uncomfortably  conscious  that  his  audience  would  laugh  at 
him.  He  would  feel  ill  at  ease,  and  therefore  would  convey 
the  impression  of  being  ill  at  ease,  exactly  as  he  would  feel 
that  he  was  posing,  was  forced  and  unnatural,  if  he  referred 
to  the  deeds  of  the  evil  heroes  of  the  Paris  Commune  as  he 
would  without  hesitation  refer  to  the  many  similar  but 
smaller  leaders  of  riots  in  the  Roman  forum. 

Dante  speaks  of  a  couple  of  French  troubadours,  or  of 
a  local  Sicilian  poet,  just  as  he  speaks  of  Euripides;  and 
quite  properly,  for  they  illustrate  as  well  what  he  has  to 
teach;  but  we  of  to-day  could  not  possibly  speak  of  a  couple 


DANTE  AND  THE  BOWERY  485 

of  recent  French  poets  or  German  novelists  in  the  same 
connection  without  having  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  we 
ought  to  defend  ourselves  from  possible  misapprehension ; 
and  therefore  we  could  not  speak  of  them  naturally.  When 
Dante  wishes  to  assail  those  guilty  of  crimes  of  violence, 
he  in  one  stanza  speaks  of  the  torments  inflicted  by  divine 
justice  on  Attila  (coupling  him  with  Pyrrhus  and  Sextus 
Pompey — a  sufficiently  odd  conjunction  in  itself,  by  the 
way),  and  in  the  next  stanza  mentions  the  names  of  a 
couple  of  local  highwaymen  who  had  made  travel  unsafe 
in  particular  neighborhoods.  The  two  highwaymen  in 
question  were  by  no  means  as  important  as  Jesse  James 
and  Billy  the  Kid;  doubtless  they  were  far  less  formidable 
fighting  men,  and  their  adventures  were  less  striking  and 
varied.  Yet  think  of  the  way  we  should  feel  if  a  great 
poet  should  now  arise  who  would  incidentally  illustrate  the 
ferocity  of  the  human  heart  by  allusions  both  to  the  ter 
rible  Hunnish  "  scourge  of  God  "  and  to  the  outlaws  who 
in  our  own  times  defied  justice  in  Missouri  and  New 
Mexico ! 

When  Dante  wishes  to  illustrate  the  fierce  passions  of 
the  human  heart,  he  may  speak  of  Lycurgus,  or  of  Saul; 
or  he  may  speak  of  two  local  contemporary  captains,  victor 
or  vanquished  in  obscure  struggles  between  Guelph  and 
Ghibellin ;  men  like  Jacopo  del  Cassero  or  Buonconte,  whom 
he  mentions  as  naturally  as  he  does  Cyrus  or  Rehoboam. 
He  is  entirely  right!  What  one  among  our  own  writers, 
however,  would  be  able  simply  and  naturally  to  mention 
Ulrich  Dahlgren,  or  Custer,  or  Morgan,  or  Raphael  Semmes, 
or  Marion,  or  Sumter,  as  illustrating  the  qualities  shown 
by  Hannibal,  or  Rameses,  or  William  the  Conqueror,  or  by 
Moses  or  Hercules  ?  Yet  the  Guelph  and  Ghibellin  captains 
of  whom  Dante  speaks  were  in  no  way  as  important  as 
these  American  soldiers  of  the  second  or  third  rank.  Dante 


486  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

saw  nothing  incongruous  in  treating  at  length  of  the  qualities 
of  all  of  them ;  he  was  not  thinking  of  comparing  the  genius 
of  the  unimportant  local  leader  with  the  genius  of  the  great 
sovereign  conquerors  of  the  past — he  was  thinking  only  'of 
the  qualities  of  courage  and  daring  and  of  the  awful  horror 
of  death;  and  when  we  deal  with  what  is  elemental  in  the 
human  soul  it  matters  but  little  whose  soul  we  take.  In 
the  same  way  he  mentions  a  couple  of  spendthrifts  of 
Padua  and  Siena,  who  come  to  violent  ends,  just  as  in  the 
preceding  canto  he  had  dwelt  upon  the  tortures  undergone 
by  Dionysius  and  Simon  de  Montfort,  guarded  by  Nessus 
and  his  fellow  centaurs.  For  some  reason  he  hated  the 
spendthrifts  in  question  as  the  Whigs  of  Revolutionary 
South  Carolina  and  New  York  hated  Tarleton,  Kruger, 
Saint  Leger,  and  De  Lancey ;  and  to  him  there  was  nothing 
incongruous  in  drawing  a  lesson  from  one  couple  of  of 
fenders  more  than  from  another.  (It  would,  by  the  way, 
be  outside  my  present  purpose  to  speak  of  the  rather  puz 
zling  manner  in  which  Dante  confounds  his  own  hatreds 
with  those  of  heaven,  and,  for  instance,  shows  a  vindictive 
enjoyment  in  putting  his  personal  opponent  Filippo  Argenti 
in  hell,  for  no  clearly  adequate  reason.) 

When  he  turns  from  those  whom  he  is  glad  to  see  in  hell 
toward  those  for  whom  he  cares,  he  shows  the  same  delight 
ful  power  of  penetrating  through  the  externals  into  the 
essentials.  Cato  and  Manfred  illustrate  his  point  no  better 
than  Belacqua,  a  contemporary  Florentine  maker  of  citherns. 
Alas !  what  poet  to-day  would  dare  to  illustrate  his  argu 
ment  by  introducing  Steinway  in  company  with  Cato  and 
Manfred !  Yet  again,  when  examples  of  love  are  needed, 
he  draws  them  from  the  wedding-feast  at  Cana,  from  the 
actions  of  Pylades  and  Orestes,  and  from  the  life  of  a 
kindly,  honest  comb-dealer  of  Siena  who  had  just  died. 
Could  we  now  link  together  Peter  Cooper  and  Pylades, 


DANTE  AND  THE  BOWERY  487 

without  feeling  a  sense  of  incongruity  ?  He  couples  Priscian 
with  a  politician  of  local  note  who  had  written  an  encyclo 
paedia  and  a  lawyer  of  distinction  who  had  lectured  at 
Bologna  and  Oxford ;  we  could  not  now  with  such  fine  un 
consciousness  bring  Evarts  and  one  of  the  compilers  of  the 
Encyclopedia  Britannica  into  a  life  comparison. 

When  Dante  deals  with  the  crimes  which  he  most 
abhorred,  simony  and  barratry,  he  flails  offenders  of  his 
age  who  were  of  the  same  type  as  those  who  in  our  days 
flourish  by  political  or  commercial  corruption ;  and  he  names 
his  offenders,  bo.th  those  just  dead  and  those  still  living, 
and  puts  them,  popes  and  politicians  alike,  in  hell.  There 
have  been  trust  magnates  and  politicians  and  editors  and 
magazine-writers  in  our  own  country  whose  lives  and  deeds 
were  no  more  edifying  than  those  of  the  men  who  lie  in  the 
third  and  the  fifth  chasm  of  the  eighth  circle  of  the  Inferno ; 
yet  for  a  poet  to  name  those  men  would  be  condemned  as 
an  instance  of  shocking  taste. 

One  age  expresses  itself  naturally  in  a  form  that  would 
be  unnatural,  and  therefore  undesirable,  in  another  age. 
We  do  not  express  ourselves  nowadays  in  epics  at  all ;  and 
we  keep  the  emotions  aroused  in  us  by  what  is  good  or  evil 
in  the  men  of  the  present  in  a  totally  different  compartment 
from  that  which  holds  our  emotions  concerning  what  was 
good  or  evil  in  the  men  of  the  past.  An  imitation  of  the 
letter  of  the  times  past,  when  the  spirit  has  wholly  altered, 
would  be  worse  than  useless;  and  the  very  qualities  that 
help  to  make  Dante's  poem  immortal  would,  if  copied  nowa 
days,  make  the  copyist  ridiculous.  Nevertheless,  it  would 
be  a  good  thing  if  we  could,  in  some  measure,  achieve  the 
mighty  Florentine's  high  simplicity  of 'soul,  at  least  to  the 
extent  of  recognizing  in  those  around  us  the  eternal  quali 
ties  which  we  admire  or  condemn  in  the  men  who  wrought 
good  or  evil  at  any  stage  in  the  world's  previous  history. 


488  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

Dante's  masterpiece  is  one  of  the  supreme  works  of  art  that 
the  ages  have  witnessed ;  but  he  would  have  been  the  last 
to  wish  that  it  should  be  treated  only  as  a  work  of  art,  or 
worshiped  only  for  art's  sake,  without  reference  to  the 
dread  lessons  it  teaches  mankind. 


[From  History  as  Literature  and  Other  Essays,  by  Theodore  Roose 
velt.    Copyright,  1913,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.] 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  UNFIT 
NICHOLAS  MURRAY  BUTLER 

THERE  are  wars  and  rumors  of  wars  in  a  portion  of  the 
territory  occupied  by  the  doctrine  of  organic  evolution.  All 
is  not  working  smoothly  and  well  and  according  to  formula. 
It  begins  to  appear  that  those  men  of  science  who,  having 
derived  the  doctrine  of  organic  evolution  in  its  modern  form 
from  observations  on  earthworms,  on  climbing-plants,  and 
on  brightly  colored  birds,  and  who  then  straightway  applied 
it  blithely  to  man  and  his  affairs,  have  made  enemies  of  no 
small  part  of  the  human  race. 

It  was  all  well  enough  to  treat  some  earthworms,  some 
climbing-plants,  and  some  brightly  colored  birds  as  fit,  and 
others  as  unfit,  to  survive;  but  when  this  distinction  is 
extended  over  human  beings  and  their  economic,  social, 
and  political  affairs,  there  is  a  general  pricking-up  of  ears. 
The  consciously  fit  look  down  on  the  resulting  discussions 
with  complacent  scorn.  The  consciously  unfit  rage  and  roar 
loudly;  while  the  unconsciously  unfit  bestir  themselves 
mightily  to  overturn  the  whole  theory  upon  which  the  dis 
tinction  between  fitness  and  unfitness  rests.  If  any  law  of 
nature  makes  so  absurd  a  distinction  as  that,  then  the  offend 
ing  and  obnoxious  law  must  be  repealed,  and  that  quickly. 

The  trouble  appears  to  arise  primarily  from  the  fact  that 
man  does  not  like  what  may  be  termed  his  evolutionary  poor 
relations.  He  is  willing  enough  to  read  about  earthworms 
and  climbing-plants  and  brightly  colored  birds,  but  he  does 
not  want  nature  to  be  making  leaps  from  any  of  these  to 
him. 

489 


49Q  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

The  earthworm,  which,  not  being  adapted  to  its  sur 
roundings,  soon  dies  unhonored  and  unsung,  passes  peace 
fully  out  of  life  without  either  a  coroner's  inquest,  an  indict 
ment  for  earthworm  slaughter,  a  legislative  proposal  for 
the  future  protection  of  earthworms,  or  even  a  new  society 
for  the  reform  of  the  social  and  economic  state  of  the  earth 
worms  that  are  left.  Even  the  quasi-intelligent  climbing- 
plant  and  the  brightly  colored  bird,  humanly  vain,  find  an 
equally  inconspicuous  fate  awaiting  them.  This  is  the  way 
nature  operates  when  unimpeded  or  unchallenged  by  the 
powerful  manifestations  of  human  revolt  or  human  revenge. 
Of  course  if  man  understood  the  place  assigned  to  him  in 
nature  by  the  doctrine  of  organic  evolution  as  well  as  the 
earthworm,  the  climbing-plant,  and  the  brightly  colored 
bird  understand  theirs,  he,  too,  like  them,  would  submit 
to  nature's  processes  and  decrees  without  a  protest.  As  a 
matter  of  logic,  no  doubt  he  ought  to;  but  after  all  these 
centuries,  it  is  still  a  far  cry  from  logic  to  life. 

In  fact,  man,  unless  he  is  consciously  and  admittedly  fit, 
revolts  against  the  implication  of  the  doctrine  of  evolution, 
and  objects  both  to  being  considered  unfit  to  survive  and 
succeed,  and  to  being  forced  to  accept  the  only  fate  which 
nature  offers  to  those  who  are  unfit  for  survival  and  suc 
cess.  Indeed,  he  manifests  with  amazing  pertinacity  what 
Schopenhauer  used  to  call  "  the  will  to  live/'  and  considera 
tions  and  arguments  based  on  adaptability  to  environment 
have  no  weight  with  him.  So  much  the  worse  for  environ 
ment,  he  cries ;  and  straightway  sets  out  to  prove  it. 

On  the  other  hand,  those  humans  who  are  classed  by  the 
doctrine  of  evolution  as  fit,  exhibit  a  most  disconcerting 
satisfaction  with  things  as  they  are.  The  fit  make  no  con 
scious  struggle  for  existence.  They  do  not  have  to.  Being 
fit,  they  survive  ipso  facto.  Thus  does  the  doctrine  of  evo 
lution,  like  a  playful  kitten,  merrily  pursue  its  tail  with 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  UNFIT  491 

rapturous  delight.  The  fit  survive;  those  survive  who  are 
fit.  Nothing  could  be  more  simple. 

Those  who  are  not  adapted  to  the  conditions  that  sur 
round  them,  however,  rebel  against  the  fate  of  the  earth 
worm  and  the  climbing-plant  and  the  brightly  colored  bird, 
and  engage  in  a  conscious  struggle  for  existence  and  for 
success  in  that  existence  despite  their  inappropriate  environ 
ment.  Statutes  can  be  repealed  or  amended ;  why  not  laws 
of  nature  as  well?  Those  human  beings  who  are  unfit 
have,  it  must  be  admitted,  one  great,  though  perhaps  tem 
porary,  advantage  over  the  laws  of  nature;  for  the  laws 
of  nature  have  not  yet  been  granted  suffrage,  and  the  or 
ganized  unfit  can  always  lead  a  large  majority  to  the  polls. 
So  soon  as  knowledge  of  this  fact  becomes  common  prop 
erty,  the  laws  of  nature  will  have  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour 
in  more  countries  than1  one. 

The  revolt  of  the  unfit  primarily  takes  the  form  of  at 
tempts  to  lessen  and  to  limit  competition,  which  is  instinct 
ively  felt,  and  with  reason,  to  be  part  of  the  struggle  for 
existence  and  for  success.  The  inequalities  which  nature 
makes,  and  without  which  the  process  of  evolution  could 
not  go  on,  the  unfit  propose  to  smooth  away  and  to  wipe  out 
by  that  magic  fiat  of  collective  human  will  called  legislation. 
The  great  struggle  between  the  gods  of  Olympus  and  the 
Titans,  which  the  ancient  sculptors  so  loved  to  picture,  was 
child's  play  compared  with  the  struggle  between  the  laws 
of  nature  and  the  laws  of  man  which  the  civilized  world  is 
apparently  soon  to  be  invited  to  witness.  This  struggle  will 
bear  a  little  examination,  and  it  may  be  that  the  laws  of 
nature,  as  the  doctrine  of  evolution  conceives  and  states 
them,  will  not  have  everything  their  own  way. 

Professor  Huxley,  whose  orthodoxy  as  an  evolutionist 
will  hardly  be  questioned,  made  a  suggestion  of  this  kind 
in  his  Romanes  lecture  as  long  ago  as  1893.  He  called 


492  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

attention  then  to  the  fact  that  there  is  a  fallacy  in  the 
notion  that  because,  on  the  whole,  animals  and  plants  have 
advanced  in  perfection  of  organization  by  means  of  the 
struggle  for  existence  and  the  consequent  survival  of  the 
fittest,  therefore,  men  as  social  and  ethical  beings  must  de 
pend  upon  the  same  process  to  help  them  to  perfection.  As 
Professor  Huxley  suggests,  this  fallacy  doubtless  has  its 
origin  in  the  ambiguity  of  the  phrase  "  survival  of  the  fit 
test/'  One  jumps  to  the  conclusion  that  fittest  means  best; 
whereas,  of  course,  it  has  in  it  no  moral  element  whatever. 
The  doctrine  of  evolution  uses  the  term  fitness  in  a  hard 
and  stern  sense.  Nothing  more  is  meant  by  it  than  a  meas 
ure  of  adaptation  to  surrounding  conditions.  Into  this  con 
ception  of  fitness  there  enters  no  element  of  beauty,  no 
element  of  morality,  no  element  of  progress  toward  an  ideal. 
Fitness  is  a  cold  fact  ascertainable  with  almost  mathematical 
certainty. 

We  now  begin  to  catch  sight  of  the  real  significance  of 
this  struggle  between  the  laws  of  nature  and  the  laws  of 
man.  From  one  point  of  view  the  struggle  is  hopeless  from 
the  start;  from  another  it  is  full  of  promise.  If  it  be  true 
that  man  really  proposes  to  halt  the  laws  of  nature  by  his 
legislation,  then  the  struggle  is  hopeless.  It  is  only  a  ques 
tion  of  time  when  the  laws  of  nature  will  have  their  way. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  struggle  between  the  laws  of 
nature  and  the  laws  of  man  is  in  reality  a  mock  struggle, 
and  the  supposed  combat  merely  an  exhibition  of  evolution 
ary  boxing,  then  we  may  find  a  clew  to  what  is  really 
going  on. 

It  might  be  worth  while,  for  example,  to  follow  up  the 
suggestion  that  in  looking  back  over  the  whole  series  of 
products  of  organic  evolution,  the  real  successes  and  per 
manences  of  life  are  to  be  found  among  those  species  that 
have  been  able  to  institute  something  like  what  we  call  a 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  UNFIT  493 

social  system.  Wherever  an  individual  insists  upon  treating 
himself  as  an  end  in  himself,  and  all  other  individuals  as 
his  actual  or  potential  competitors  or  enemies,  then  the  fate 
of  the  earthworm,  the  climbing-plant,  and  the  brightly 
colored  bird  is  sure  to  be  his ;  for  he  has  brought  himself 
under  the  jurisdiction  of  one  of  nature's  laws,  and  sooner 
or  later  he  must  succumb  to  that  law  of  nature,  and  in  the 
struggle  for  existence  his  place  will  be  marked  out  for  him 
by  it  with  unerring  precision.  If,  however,  he  has  devel 
oped  so  far  as  to  have  risen  to  the  lofty  height  of  human 
sympathy,  and  thereby  has  learned  to  transcend  his  indi 
viduality  and  to  make  himself  a  member  of  a  larger  whole, 
he  may  then  save  himself  from  the  extinction  which  follows 
inevitably  upon  proved  unfitness  in  the  individual  struggle 
for  existence. 

So  soon  as  the  individual  has  something  to  give,  there 
will  be  those  who  have  something  to  give  to  him,  and  he 
elevates  himself  above  this  relentless  law  with  its  inexorable 
punishments  for  the  unfit.  At  that  point,  when  individuals 
begin  to  give  each  to  the  other,  then  their  mutual  co 
operation  and  interdependence  build  human  society,  and 
participation  in  that  society  changes  the  whole  character  of 
the  human  struggle.  Nevertheless,  large  numbers  of  human 
beings  carry  with  them  into  social  and  political  relations 
the  traditions  and  instincts  of  the  old  individualistic  strug 
gle  for  existence,  with  the  laws  of  organic  evolution  pointing 
grimly  to  their  several  destinies.  These  are  not  able  to 
realize  that  moral  elements,  and  what  we  call  progress 
toward  an  end  or  ideal,  are  not  found  under  the  operation 
of  the  law  of  natural  selection,  but  have  to  be  discovered 
elsewhere  and  added  to  it.  Beauty,  morality,  progress  have 
other  lurking-places  than  in  the  struggle  for  existence,  and 
they  have  for  their  sponsors  other  laws  than  that  of  natural 
selection.  You  will  read  the  pages  of  Darwin  and  of  Her- 


494  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

bert  Spencer  in  vain  for  any  indication  of  how  the  Parthenon 
was  produced,  how  the  Sistine  Madonna,  how  the  Ninth 
Symphony  of  Beethoven,  how  the  Divine  Comedy,  or  Ham 
let  or  Faust.  There  are  many  mysteries  left  in  the  world, 
thank  God,  and  these  are  some  of  them. 

The  escape  of  genius  from  the  cloud-covered  mountain- 
tops  of  the  unknown  into  human  society  has  not  yet  been 
accounted  for.  Even  Rousseau  made  a  mistake.  When 
he  was  writing  the  Contrat  social  it  is  recorded  that  his 
attention  was  favorably  attracted  by  the  island  of  Corsica. 
He,  being  engaged  in  the  process  of  finding  out  how  to 
repeal  the  laws  of  man  by  the  laws  of  nature,  spoke  of 
Corsica  as  the  one  country  in  Europe  that  seemed  to  him 
capable  of  legislation.  This  led  him  to  add :  "  I  have  a 
presentiment  that  some  clay  this  little  island  will  astonish 
Europe."  It  was  not  long  before  Corsica  did  astonish 
Europe,  but  not  by  any  capacity  for  legislation.  As  some 
clever  person  has  said,  it  let  loose  Napoleon.  We  know 
nothing  more  of  the  origin  and  advent  of  genius  than 
that. 

Perhaps  we  should  comprehend  these  things  better  were 
it  not  for  the  persistence  of  the  superstition  that  human 
beings  habitually  think.  There  is  no  more  persistent  super 
stition  than  this.  Linnaeus  helped  it  on  to  an  undeserved 
permanence  when  he  devised  the  name  Homo  sapiens  for 
the  highest  species  of  the  order  primates.  That  was  the 
quintessence  of  complimentary  nomenclature.  Of  course 
human  beings  as  such  do  not  think.  A  real  thinker  is  one 
of  the  rarest  things  in  nature.  He  comes  only  at  long 
intervals  in  human  history,  and  when  he  does  come,  he  is 
often  astonishingly  unwelcome.  Indeed,  he  is  sometimes 
speedily  sent  the  way  of  the  unfit  and  unprotesting  earth 
worm.  Emerson  understood  this,  as  he  understood  so  many 
other  of  the  deep  things  of  life.  For  he  wrote :  "  Beware 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  UNFIT  495 

when  the  great   God  lets  loose  a  thinker  on  this   planet. 
Then  all  things  are  at  risk." 

The  plain  fact  is  that  man  is  not  ruled  by  thinking.  When 
man  thinks  he  thinks,  he  usually  merely  feels;  and  his  in 
stincts  and  feelings  are  powerful  precisely  in  proportion 
as  they  are  irrational.  Reason  reveals  the  other  side,  and 
a  knowledge  of  the  other  side  is  fatal  to  the  driving  power 
of  a  prejudice.  Prejudices  have  their  important  uses,  but 
it  is  well  to  try  not  to  mix  them  up  with  principles. 

The  underlying  principle  in  the  widespread  and  ominous 
revolt  of  the  unfit  is  that  moral  considerations  must  out 
weigh  the  mere  blind  struggle  for  existence  in  human 
affairs. 

It  is  to  this  fact  that  we  must  hold  fast  if  we  would 
understand  the  world  of  to-day,  and  still  more  the  world 
of  to-morrow.  The  purpose  of  the  revolt  of  the  unfit  is  to 
substitute  interdependence  on  a  higher  plane  for  the  struggle 
for  existence  on  a  lower  one.  Who  dares  attempt  to  picture 
what  will  happen  if  this  revolt  shall  not  succeed? 

These  are  problems  full  of  fascination.  In  one  form  or 
another  they  will  persist  as  long  as  humanity  itself.  There 
is  only  one  way  of  getting  rid  of  them,  and  that  is  so  charm 
ingly  and  wittily  pointed  out  by  Robert  Louis  Steven 
son  in  his  fable,  "  The  Four  Reformers,"  that  I  wish  to 
quote  it : 

"  Four  reformers  met  under  a  bramble-bush.  They  were 
all  agreed  the  world  must  be  changed.  '  We  must  abolish 
property,'  said  one. 

'  We  must  abolish  marriage/  said  the  second. 

"  '  We  must  abolish  God,'  said  the  third. 
'  I  wish  we  could  abolish  work/  said  the  fourth. 
'  Do  not  let  us  get  beyond  practical  politics/  said  the 
first.     '  The   first   thing   is   to  reduce   men  to  a   common 
level/ 


496  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

"  '  The  first  thing/  said  the  second,  '  is  to  give  freedom 
to  the  sexes/ 

"  '  The  first  thing/  said  the  third,  '  is  to  find  out  how  to 
do  it/ 

"  '  The  first  step/  said  the  first,  '  is  to  abolish  the  Bible/ 

"  '  The  first  thing/  said  the  second,  '  is  to  abolish  the 
laws/ 

"  '  The  first  thing/  said  the  third,  '  is  to  abolish  man 
kind/  " 


[From   Why  Should   We  Change   Our  Form   of  Government,  by 

Nicholas  Murray  Butler.    Copyright,  1912,  by 

Charles    Scribner's   Sons.] 


ON  TRANSLATING  THE  ODES  OF  HORACE 
W.  P.  TRENT 

IN  a  letter  written  on  August  21,  1703,  to  Robert  Harley, 
afterward  Earl  of  Oxford  and  Prime  Minister,  by  Dr. 
George  Hickes,  the  famous  scholar  and  non- juror,  there  is 
a  reference  to  "  old  Dr.  Biram  Eaton  who  has  read  Horace 
over,  as  they  tell  me,  many  hundred  times,  oftener,  I  fear, 
than  he  has  read  the  Gospels."  Dr.  Biram  Eaton  has  es 
caped  an  article  in  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography, 
and,  so  far  as  I  know,  he  has  never  been  reckoned  by 
Horatians  among  their  patron  saints.  In  view  of  the  slur 
cast  upon  him  by  Dr.  Hickes  I  should  like  to  propose  his 
canonization,  but  I  should  much  prefer  to  lay  a  wager  that 
he  found  time  between  his  readings  to  try  to  turn  some  of 
the  odes  of  his  favorite  writer  into  English  verses,  probably 
into  couplets  resembling  those  of  Dryden.  And  I  should 
also  be  willing  to  wager  that  before  and  after  making  each 
of  his  versions,  he  gave  expression,  in  some  form  or  other, 
to  the  proverbial  statement  that  to  attempt  to  translate 
Horace  is  to  attempt  the  impossible. 

Perhaps  we  owe  to  this  proverbial  impossibility  the  fact 
that  the  translator  of  Horace  is  always  with  us.  A  living 
antinomy,  he  writes  a  modest  preface;  then  exclaiming  in 
the  words  of  his  master,  (f  Nil  mortalibus  ardid  est,"  he  tries 
to  scale  very  heaven  in  his  folly,  to  rush  blindly  per  vetitum 
nefas.  But  because  he  has  loved  much,  therefore  is  much 
forgiven  him.  To  love  Horace  and  not  attempt  to  translate 
him  would  be  to  flout  that  principle  of  altruism  in  which 

497 


AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

some  modern  thinkers  have  discovered,  more  poetically  per 
haps  than  philosophically,  the  motive  force  of  civilization. 
"  We  love  Horace,  and  hence  we  must  try  to  set  him  forth 
in  a  way  to  make  others  love  him,"  is  what  all  translators, 
it  would  seem,  say  to  themselves,  consciously  or  uncon 
sciously,  when  they  decide  to  publish  their  respective  rendi 
tions.  And  who  shall  blame  them?  Where  is  the  critic 
competent  to  judge  their  work,  who  has  not  himself  listened 
to  the  Siren's  song,  if  but  for  a  moment  in  his  youth,  who 
has  not  a  version  of  some  ode  of  Horace  hid  away  among 
his  papers,  the  memory  of  which  will  doubtless  forever  pre 
vent  him  from  flinging  a  stone  at  any  fellow-offender  ? 

It  is  not  only  impossible  to  translate  Horace  adequately, 
but  it  is  impossible  to  explain  satisfactorily  the  causes  of 
his  unbounded  popularity — a  popularity  illustrated  by  the 
fact  that  when  that  well-known  group  of  American  book- 
lovers,  the  Bibliophile  Society,  were  seeking  to  determine 
what  great  man  of  letters  they  would  first  honor  by  issuing 
one  or  more  of  his  works  in  sumptuous  form,  they  chose — 
not  an  author  of  their  own  day  or  nation  or  language — but 
a  writer  dead  nearly  two  thousand  years,  of  alien  race  and 
tongue,  spokesman  of  a  civilization  remote  and  strange,  the 
Horace  of  the  immortal  Odes.  Yet  admirers  of  Lucretius 
and  of  Catullus  tell  us  very  plainly  and  insistently  that  this 
Horace  of  the  Odes  is  not  a  great  poet.  We  listen  respect 
fully  to  the  charge  and  somehow  we  do  not  seem  greatly 
to  resent  it;  we  merely  read  the  Odes,  if  possible,  more 
diligently  and  affectionately — not,  it  is  true,  in  the  splendid 
Bibliophile  volumes,  but  in  some  well-worn  pocket  edition 
that  has  accompanied  us  on  our  journeys,  or,  like  one  I  own, 
has  helped  us  to  while  away  the  hours  on  a  deer  stand, 
through  which  the  deer,  as  shy  as  the  fawn  with  which  the 
poet  compared  Chloe,  simply  would  not  run.  If  we  own 
such  a  pocket  volume,  we  leave  our  critical  faculties  in 


ON  TRANSLATING  THE  ODES  OF  HORACE          499 

abeyance  when  Dante,  in  the  Inferno,  introduces  Horace 
to  us  along  with  Homer  and  Ovid  and  Lucan;  for  do  not 
our  hearts  tell  us  that  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  phrase, 
he  is  worthy  to  walk  with  the  greatest  of  this  medievally 
assorted  company?  We  feel  sure  that  Virgil  must  have 
loved  him  as  a  man;  we  have  proof  that  Milton  admired 
him  as  a  poet.  We  deny  to  him  "  the  grand  manner/'  but 
we  attribute  to  him  every  charm.  When  we  seek  to  analyze 
this  charm,  we  are  left  with  the  suspicion  that,  after  we 
have  pointed  out  many  of  its  elements,  such  as  humor, 
vivacity,  kindliness,  sententiottsness,  and  the  like,  there  are 
as  many  others,  equally  potent  but  more  subtle,  that  escape 
us  altogether.  So  we  turn  the  hackneyed  saying  into  "  the 
charm  is  the  man,"  and  contentedly  exchange  analysis  for 
enjoyment.  And  yet  we  are  persuaded  that  no  author  is 
more  worthy  of  the  painstaking,  detailed  study  characteristic 
of  modern  scholarship  than  is  this  same  Epicurean  poet,  who 
so  utterly  defies  analysis  and  would  be  the  first,  were  he 
not  but  "  dust  and  a  shade,"  to  smile  at  our  ponderous  erudi 
tion.  We  feel  that  the  scholar  who  shall  devote  the  best 
years  of  his  life  to  studying  the  influence  of  Horace  upon 
subsequent  writers  in  the  chief  literatures  and  to  collecting 
the  tributes  that  have  been  paid  to  his  genius  by  the  great 
and  worthy  of  all  lands  and  ages,  will  deserve  sincere  bene 
dictions.  We  conclude,  in  short,  that  that  exquisite  epithet, 
"  the  well-beloved,"  so  inappropriately  bestowed  upon  the 
worthless  and  flippant  French  King,  belongs  to  Horace,  and 
to  Horace  alone,  jure  divino. 

But  this  praise  of  Horace  and  this  defense  of  his  trans 
lators  fails  to  justify  or  explain  the  writing  of  this  paper. 
An  honest  confession  being  good  for  the  soul,  I  will  confess 
that  the  remarks  that  follow  were  first  employed  to  intro 
duce  some  versions  of  selected  Odes  I  was  once  rash  enough 
to  publish.  It  is  not  a  good  sportsman  that  shuts  his  eyes 


5oo  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

and  bangs  away  with  both  barrels  at  a  flock  of  birds,  and 
I  now  doubt  whether  I  was  wise  in  trying  to  bring  down 
readers,  if  not  with  my  verse-barrel,  at  least  with  my  prose- 
barrel.  Being  older,  I  use  at  present  only  one  barrel  at  a 
time  and,  perhaps  for  the  same  reason,  I  am  wont  to  try 
the  prose-barrel.  And  fortunately  I  can  apply  to  the  com 
ments  I  intend  to  make  on  Horatian  translators  the  quota 
tion  I  used  in  order  to  mollify  irate  readers  of  my  own  verse 
renderings.  It  came  from  a  once  popular,  now  forgotten 
poet,  the  Rev.  John  Pomfret,  and  it  ran  as  follows : — "  It 
will  be  to  little  purpose,  the  Author  presumes,  to  offer  any 
reasons  why  the  following  POEMS  appear  in  public;  for  it  is 
ten  to  one  whether  he  gives  the  true,  and  if  he  does,  it  is 
much  greater  odds  whether  the  gentle  reader  is  so  courte 
ous  as  to  believe  him." 

So  much  has  been  written  on  the  methods  of  Horace's 
translators,  and  so  much  remains  to  be  written,  that  it  is 
hard  to  determine  where  to  begin ;  but  perhaps  the  preface 
of  the  late  Professor  Conington  to  his  well-known  transla 
tion  of  the  Odes  will  furnish  a  proper  point  of  departure. 
Few  persons,  whether  translators  or  readers,  are  likely  to 
object  to  Conington's  first  premise  that  the  translator  ought 
to  aim  at  "  some  kind  of  metrical  conformity  to  his  original.'1 
To  reproduce  an  original  Sapphic  or  Alcaic  stanza  in  blank 
verse,  or  in  the  couplets  of  Pope,  is  at  once  to  repel  the 
reader  who  knows  Horace  well,  and  to  give  the  reader  who 
is  unacquainted  with  Latin  lyric  poetry  a  totally  erroneous 
conception  of  the  metrical  and  rhythmical  methods  of  the 
poet.  To  render  a  compressed  Latin  verse  by  a  diffuse 
English  one  is  to  do  injustice,  as  Conington  observes,  to  the 
sententiousness  for  which  Horace  is  justly  celebrated,  al 
though  the  English  scholar,  had  he  written  after  the  appear 
ance  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  attempt  to  render  the  Odes,  might 
with  propriety  have  added  that  the  translator  should  not, 


ON  TRANSLATING  THE  ODES  OF  HORACE          501 

in  his  avoidance  of  diffuseness,  be  seduced  by  the  facility 
of  the  octosyllabic  couplet.  To  translate  Horace's  odes  into 
anything  but  quatrains,  except  on  occasions,  is  also  to  offend 
the  meticulous  Horatian  and  to  mislead  any  reader  who 
seeks  to  know  the  poet  through  an  English  rendering.  It 
would  seem,  however,  that  when  Professor  Conington  in 
sisted  that  an  English  measure  once  adopted  for  the  Alcaic 
must  be  used  for  every  ode  in  which  Horace  employed  the 
stanza  just  named,  he  went  far  toward  hampering  the  trans 
lator,  who,  despite  his  proneness  to  offend,  has  his  rights. 
That  such  uniformity  ought  to  be  aimed  at,  and  that  it 
will,  as  a  rule,  be  aimed  at,  is  doubtless  true;  but  there  is 
an  element  of  the  problem  with  which  Conington  does  not 
seem  sufficiently  to  have  reckoned. 

This  is  rhyme,  which  he  assumed  to  be  necessary  to  a 
successful  rendition  of  an  ode  of  Horace.  A  particular 
stanza  not  employing  rhyme  may  probably  be  used  without 
resulting  loss  in  translating  every  ode  written  in  a  special 
form.  Yet  this  may  not  be  the  case  with  a  stanza  employing 
rhymes,  if  the  translator  aim,  as  he  should,  at  a  fairly, 
though  not  an  awkwardly  literal  rendering  of  the  language 
of  his  original.  There  will  necessarily  be  coincidences  of 
sound  in  a  literal  prose  version  of  a  Latin  stanza  that  will 
suggest  a  definite  and  advantageous  arrangement  of  rhymes 
for  a  poetical  version.  To  adopt  a  certain  English  stanza 
in  which  to  render  a  certain  Latin  stanza  wherever  it  oc 
curs,  is  to  do  away  with  this  natural  advantage,  which  pre 
sents  itself  oftener  than  might  at  first  be  supposed. 

Concrete  examples  will  serve  to  make  my  meaning  clear. 
The  third  ode  of  the  first  book,  the  admirable  "  Sic  te  diva 
potens  Cypri,"  is  written  in  what  is  called  the  Second 
Asclepiad  meter;  so  is  the  delightful  ninth  ode  of  the 
third  book,  the  "  Donee  gratus  eram."  We  will  assume  that 
for  the  first  of  these  odes  the  translator  has  chosen  a 


502  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

quatrain  with  alternating  rhymes  (a,  b,  a,  b).  Following 
Professor  Conington's  rule  of  uniformity,  he  must  employ 
the  same  stanza  for  the  second  of  the  two  odes,  which,  by 
the  way,  Conington  himself  did  not  do,  for  reasons  which 
he  gave  at  length.  Now  the  fifth  stanza  of  the  "  Donee 
gratus  eram  "  runs  as  follows  : — 

"  Quid  si  prisca  redit  Venus 

Diductosque  jugo  cogit  aeneo, 
Si  flava  excutitur  Chloe 

Rejectaeque  patet  janua  Lydiae?" 

This  may  be  rendered  in  prose: — 

"  What  if  the  former  Love  return  and  join  with  brazen 
yoke  the  parted  ones,  if  yellow-haired  Chloe  be  shaken  off, 
and  the  door  stand  open  for  rejected  Lydia?" 

If  my  memory  does  not  deceive  me,  it  was  this  stanza, 
and  especially  one  word  in  its  last  verse,  that  determined 
the  arrangement  of  rhymes  in  a  version  I  attempted  years 
ago,  "  Consule  Planco."  This  verse  seemed  to  run  in 
evitably  into 

"And  open  stand  for  Lydia  the  door." 

It  needed  but  a  moment  to  detect  in  the  first  verse  of  the 
stanza  a  possible  rhyme-word.  The  syllable  re  of  redit 
furnished  more,  not  the  most  apt  of  rhymes  with  door,  but 
still  sufficient,  as  things  go  with  amateur  translators,  and 
with  a  perhaps  pardonable  tautology  I  wrote 

"What  if  the   former  Love  once  more 
Return — " 

Two  other  rhymes  were  found  with  little  difficulty  in  the 
di  of  diductos  and  in  excutitur,  which  suggested  wide  and 
cast  aside,  and  the  whole  stanza,  omitting  strictly  metrical 


ON  TRANSLATING  THE  ODES  OF  HORACE          503 

considerations,  appeared,  or  rather  might  have  appeared,  for 
I  have  changed  it  slightly,  as  follows : — 

"  What  if  the  former  Love  once  more 
Return  and  yoke  the  sweethearts  parted  wide, 
If   fair-haired   Chloe  be  cast  aside, 
And  open   stand   for  Lydia   the   door?" 

This  stanza  seemed  to  have  the  merit  of  almost  complete 
literalness,  since  it  omitted  only  two  epithets,  and  I  thought 
it  had  no  unpardonable  defects  of  rhythm  and  diction.  So  I 
took  it  as  a  model,  and  with  little  difficulty  translated  the 
entire  ode — with  what  success  I  should  not  say  and  others 
need  not  inquire. 

That  rhymes  and  their  position  in  the  stanza  are  often 
determined  for  the  translator  by  his  original  or  else  by  a 
prose  rendering  of  that  original  seems  also  to  be  shown  by 
the  following  version  of  the  closing  ode  of  the  first  book 
(Carm.  xxxviii) — the  graceful  "  Persicos  odi": — 

"  I  hate  your  Persian  trappings,  boy, 
Your   linden-woven   crowns   annoy, 
Cease  searching  for  the  spot  where  blows 
The  lingering  rose. 

"  To   simple   myrtle   nothing   add ; 
The  myrtle  misbecomes,  my  lad, 
Nor  thee  nor  me  drinking  my  wine 
'Neath  close-grown  vine." 

Here  "  puer,"  boy,  and  "  Displicent,"  displease  or  annoy, 
seem  to  determine,  not  merely  the  first  rhyme,  but  the  rhyme 
arrangement  (a,  a),  and  it  needs  but  a  glance  at  the  close  of 
the  first  stanza  of  the  original  to  show  that  another  word 
rhyming  with  "  boy  ''  would  be  hard  to  obtain.  It  follows 
that,  if  we  are  to  have  a  quatrain,  the  third  and  fourth  verses 
should  probably  be  made  to  rhyme  (b,  b),  and  it  is  not  diffi 
cult  to  comply  with  this  requirement,  or  to  cast  the  second 
ctanza  in  the  mold  of  the  first.  It  is,  alas !  too  true  that 


504  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

no  equivalent  to  "  blows  "  will  be  found  in  Horace,  that 
"  Sedulus  euro  "  has  been  unceremoniously  thrown  aside, 
that  the  poet  does  not  specifically  mention  "  wine  "  as  the 
beverage  he  liked  to  drink  in  his  rustic  arbor.  But  a  "  rose," 
which  Horace  does  mention,  certainly  "  blows  "  or  blooms 
very  often  in  English  verse ;  it  is  not  too  far-fetched  to  get 
"  nothing  add  "  and  "  lad  "  out  of  "  nihil  allabores  "  and 
"  ministrum  " ;  and  "  vine  "  ("  vite  ")  has  suggested  "  wine  " 
to  many  generations  of  poets.  But  it  is  rhyme  suggestions 
and  their  influence  upon  the  choice  of  stanzaic  form  that 
have  occasioned  this  mild  protest  against  Professor  Coning- 
ton's  precepts  of  rigid  stanzaic  conformity.  I  am  convinced, 
from  the  above  examples  and  from  many  more,  not  only 
that  uniformity  of  stanza  is  not  to  be  strictly  insisted  upon 
when  one  is  employing  rhymes,  but  also  that  translators 
should  search  more  diligently  than  they  appear  to  do  for 
the  rhyme  suggestions  implicit  in  so  many  Horatian 
stanzas. 

Upon  other  points  it  is  easier  to  agree  with  Conington. 
For  most  of  the  odes  the  iambic  movement  natural  to  Eng 
lish  is  preferable,  as  Milton  may  be  held  to  have  perceived. 
He  abandoned  rhyme  in  his  celebrated  version  of  the  "  Quis 
multa  gracilis  "  (i.,  v.),  and  hence  he  had  an  excellent  oppor 
tunity  to  indulge  in  experiments  in  so-called  logaoedic  verse. 
But  he  clung  to  the  iambic  movement,  and  the  fact  is  sig 
nificant,  although  not  to  be  pressed,  since  he  gave  us  no  other 
rendering  of  an  entire  ode.  Here  too,  however,  I  must  plead 
for  a  careful  study  of  each  ode  by  the  would-be  translator, 
for  there  seem  to  be  cases  in  which  it  would  be  almost 
disastrous  to  attempt  a  version  in  iambics.  Such  a  case  is 
presented  by  the  beautiful  "  Diffugere  nives  "  (iv.,  vii.). 
The  iambic  renderings  of  Professor  Conington  and  Sir 
Theodore  Martin  seem  to  stray  far  from  the  original  move 
ment — as  far  as  the  former's  "  '  No  'scaping  death '  pro- 


ON  TRANSLATING  THE  ODES  OF  HORACE          505 

claims  the  year  "  does  from  the  diction  of  Horace  or  of  any 
other  good  poet.  It  is  true  that  English  dactyls  are  dan 
gerous  things,  especially  in  translations,  where  the  padding 
or  packing  which  is  natural  to  the  measure  when  employed 
in  English,  is  increased  by  the  padding  inevitably  introduced 
into  a  translation  from  a  synthetic  into  an  analytic  language. 
Yet  the  dactylic  movement  of  the  First  Archilochian,  in 
which  the  "  Diffugere  nives  "  is  written,  is  hardly  without 
great  loss  to  be  represented  by  any  use  of  English  iambics. 
It  presents  more  difficulty  than  the  introduction  of  some 
thing  resembling  the  movement  of  dactylic  hexameters 
proper  into  our  blank  verse. 

When  the  translator  makes  up  his  mind  to  attempt  a 
close  approximation  to  the  Horatian  meter,  it  would  seem 
that  he  should  eschew  the  use  of  rhyme  as  likely  to  operate 
against  that  effect  of  likeness  to  the  original  which  he  is 
striving  to  secure.  But,  since  the  use  of  rhyme  in  lyric 
poetry  appears,  as  Conington  held,  to  be  essential  at  present 
if  the  English  version  is  to  be  acceptable  as  poetry,  this  close 
approximation  can  be  desirable  in  a  few  special  cases  only. 
It  will  not  do  to  dogmatize  on  such  matters,  but  it  may  be 
safely  said  that  no  poet,  not  even  Milton  or  Whitman,  has 
yet  accustomed  the  English  or  the  American  ear  to  the  use 
of  rhymeless  verse  in  lyrical  poetry.  Here  and  there  a  suc 
cessful  rhymeless  lyric,  such  as  Collins's  "  Ode  to  Evening  '' 
and  Tennyson's  "  Alcaics  "  on  Milton,  shows  us  that  rhyme- 
less  stanzas  may  occasionally  be  used  for  lyric  purposes  with 
good  effect;  but  thus  far  those  translators  of  Horace  who 
have  made  a  practice  of  eschewing  rhyme  have  failed,  as  a 
rule,  like  the  first  Lord  Lytton,1  to  give  us  versions  that 

1  Just  as  I  am  revising  these  comments,  the  two  volumes  of 
the  Earl  of  Lytton's  admirable  biography  of  his  grandfather  find 
themselves  on  my  table.  As  was  to  be  expected,  they  contain  sev 
eral  interesting  references  to  Horace.  "  He  is  the  model  for  popu 
lar  lyrics,  and  certainly  the  greatest  lyrist  extant."  Again — "  Observe 


506  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

charm.  Yet  charm  is  what  the  translator  of  Horace  should 
chiefly  endeavor  to  convey. 

I  am  still  more  confident  that  Conington  was  right  when 
he  insisted  that  the  English  rendering  should  be  confined 
"  within  the  same  number  of  lines  as  the  Latin."  He  was 
surely  right  when  he  taxed  Sir  Theodore  Martin,  who  so 
frequently  violated  this  rule,  with  an  exuberance  that  is 
totally  at  variance  with  the  severity  of  the  classics.  Such 
exuberance  is  almost  certain  to  result  if  the  translator  aban 
don  the  strict  number  of  the  lines  into  which  the  Roman 
poet  compressed  his  thought.  It  results,  too,  from  the  use 
of  stanzas  of  over  four  verses  each.  There  is  no  other  rule 
of  translating  that  will  so  effectively  insure  a  successful 
retention  of  the  diction  of  the  original  as  this  of  the  line 
for  line  rendering,  whenever  such  rendering  is  possible. 
And  that  the  diction  and  the  thought  of  the  poet  should 
be  more  closely  followed  than  is  usually  the  case,  admits  of 
no  manner  of  doubt.  We  have  already  seen  that  a  close 
scrutiny  of  the  Latin  will  often  suggest  an  almost  literal 
rendering  of  the  thought  and  diction.  Such  a  rendering  is 
more  desired  by  the  reader  who  is  familiar  with  Horace 
than  by  the  reader  who  is  not,  but  it  will  be  both  pleasing 
and  serviceable  to  the  latter,  if  the  quality  of  literalness  be 
not  too  slavishly  obtained.  Metrical  considerations  and  gen 
eral  smoothness  ought,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  weigh  with 
every  translator,  but  surely  they  ought  not  to  outweigh  accu 
rate  rendering  of  diction  and  thought,  especially  the  diction 
and  thought  of  a  poet  so  felicitous  as  Horace  in  his  phrasing, 
and  so  just  and  happy  in  his  observation  of  life. 

In  this  connection  I  am  not  sure  but  that  Conington  went 

how  wonderfully  he  compresses  and  studies  terseness,  as  if  afraid 
to  bore  an  impatient,  idle  audience;  secondly,  when  he  selects  his 
picture,  how  it  stands  out — Cleopatra's  flight,  the  speech  of  Regulus, 
the  vision  of  Hades  in  the  ode  on  his  escape  from  the  tree,  &c." 


ON  TRANSLATING  THE  ODES  OF  HORACE     .    507 

too  far  when  he  recommended  the  Horatian  translator  to 
hold  by  the  diction  of  our  own  Augustan  period.  That  the 
Age  of  Pope  corresponds  in  many  ways  with  that  of  Horace 
is  true  enough,  and  the  student  of  the  poetry  of  the  eight 
eenth  century  who  cares  at  all  for  the  poets  he  studies  is 
almost  sure  to  be  an  admirer  of  the  "  Roman  bard  "  whom 
Pope  imitated.  But  the  diction  of  Horace  does  not  strike 
one  as  stilted,  while  that  of  Pope  often  does ;  and  for  a 
translator  of  our  own  days  to  employ  a  diction  that  seems 
in  any  way  stilted  is  fatal  not  merely  to  the  popularity  and 
hence  to  the  present  effectiveness  of  his  work,  but  also,  in 
all  probability,  to  its  intrinsic  value.  There  is  a  good  deal 
of  the  commonplace  also  in  the  poetry  produced  in  the  eight 
eenth  century;  but  commonplace  the  translator  of  Horace 
can  least  afford  to  be.  Horace  himself  may  approach  dan 
gerously  near  the  commonplace,  yet  he  seems  always  to  miss 
it  by  a  dexterous  and  graceful  turn.  The  translator,  running 
after,  will  miss  this  turn  sufficiently  often,  as  it  is ;  he  can 
not,  therefore,  afford  to  steep  himself  in  a  literature  that 
has  a  tendency  to  the  commonplace.  But  just  as  little  can 
he  afford  to  steep  himself  in  the  Romantic  Poets  from  Shel 
ley  to  Swinburne.  A  translation,  whether  from  the  Greek 
or  the  Latin,  imbibing  the  luxuriance  of  imagination  and 
phrasing  characteristic  of  these  modern  poets,  may  satisfy 
a  reader  still  in  his  intellectual  teens,  but  the  reader  who 
makes  use  of  a  translation  of  Horace  is  likely  to  have 
passed  out  of  that  period  of  immaturity.  It  may  be  heretical, 
but  I  fancy  that  the  translator  of  Horace  who  steeps  himself 
in  Keats  or  Tennyson,  will  be  even  less  likely  to  give  us 
the  ideal  rendering  than  the  translator  who  steeps  himself 
in  Pope.  Luxuriance  and  elegance  may  at  times  be  more 
displeasing  than  excessive  polish  and  point. 

To  mention  the   eighteenth  century  is   to  bring  up  the 
thought  of  Horatian  paraphrases.    A  successful  paraphrase 


508  AMERICAN  ESSAYS 

is  sometimes  better  as  poetry  than  a  good  poetical  transla 
tion,  and  it  not  infrequently  conveys  a  juster  idea  of  the 
spirit  of  Horace.  It  is  almost  needless  to  praise  the  work 
in  this  kind  of  Mr.  Austin  Dobson  and  of  the  late  Eugene 
Field.  But  a  paraphrase,  however  good,  can  never  be 
entirely  satisfying  either  to  the  reader  that  knows  Horace 
or  to  the  reader  that  desires  to  know  him.  Nor  can  a  prose 
version  be  thoroughly  satisfactory.  What  is  wanted  is  not 
merely  the  drift  of  the  poet's  thought,  but,  as  near  as  may 
be,  what  he  actually  sang.  The  paraphrase  may  sing,  and 
the  prose  version  may  give  us  the  thought  in  nearly  equiva 
lent  words,  which  may  carry  along  with  them  not  a  little  of 
the  poet's  feeling;  but  neither  answers  all  our  requirements 
as  well  as  a  good  rendering  in  verse  may  do — such  a  ren 
dering,  for  example,  as  that  which  the  late  Goldwin  Smith 
gave  of  the  "  Coelo  tonantem  "  (Hi.,  v.) — yet  there  is  surely 
room  for  all  these  forms  of  approach  to  a  poet  who  is,  para 
doxically  enough,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  the  most  ap 
proachable  and  the  most  unapproachable  of  writers. 

But  one  could  write  forever  upon  the  topic  of  poetical 
translation  in  general,  and  of  the  translation  of  Horace's 
odes  in  particular.  It  is  a  subject  about  which  people  will 
differ  to  the  end  of  time;  a  subject  the  principles  of  which 
will  never  be  thoroughly  exemplified  in  practice.  Still,  it 
always  seems'  to  fascinate  those  who  discuss  it,  and  they 
have  a  way  of  hoping  that  what  they  have  said  about  it 
will  not  be  without  value  to  those  who  want  to  read  about  it. 
"  Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast/'  said  the  poet 
who  also  wrote  of  his  great  master  lines  that  have  not  been 
surpassed  in  their  kind: — 

"  Horace  still  charms  with  graceful  negligence, 
And  without  method  talks  us  into  sense, 
Will  like  a  friend  familiarly  convey, 
The  truest  notions  in  the  easiest  way." 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  hanks<aJtt£ttiuA^MMUBWMliate  recall. 


MftYlj1958 

^/MAY  59** 

REC'D  UD 

IVlfAf     i  9     ^^9 

'      i  50S  i 

ASTRO  N., 

JUL    5  1960 

General  Library 
LD  21A-50m-8,'i57                                 University  of  California 
(C8481slO)476B                                                  Berkeley 

huJBderfrCb 


1752 


